W: 


nia 


Cf- 


^2 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


VIATOR; 


OR, 


A    PEEP 


INTO 


MY    NOTE    BOOK. 


BY   THE   AUTHOR    OF 
A.   GRUMBLER'S   'MISCELLANEOUS   THOUGHTS,'  8ic. 


Books  should  to  one  of  these  four  ends  conduce, 
For  wisdom,  piety,  dehght,  or  use. — Denham. 

'Tis  in  books  the  chief 
Of  all  perfections  to  be  plain  and  brief. — Butler. 


BALTIMORE: 

PUBLISHED    BY    PLASKITT    &    CUGLE. 


MDCCCXLI. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  thirty-nino,  by  David  Hoffman,  in  tlie  Clerk's 
Office,  of  Uie   District  of  Maryland. 


JOHN    P.    TOY,   PRINTER. 


CONTENTS 


Epistle  Dedicatory, 5 

Address  to  my  Readers, 9 

CHAPTER  I. 

Note  I.            The  London  Crossings,       ...  31 

II.  Christian  Burial — on  terms,     .        .  39 

III.  Seclusion  from  the  World,          .         .  45 

IV.  The  Young  Inebriate,     ...  55 

CHAPTER  II. 

Note  V.          The  Schoolmen,          .        ...  70 

VI.  E  Pluribus  Unum,          ...  83 

VII.  The  Philosophical  Eater,    ...  90 

VIII.  A  Curious  Proposition,    ,        .        .  109 

CHAPTER  III. 

Note  IX.         St.  Peter's  Chair,  at  Rome,        .        .113 

X.  Was  St.  Peter  ever  at  Rome?        .  120 

XI.  Dr.  Watson  and  the  Stuart  Papers,  136 

XII.  Taking  Heaven  by  Storm,         .        .  143 


iv  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Note  XIII,      The  Travelling  Etymologist,           .  151 

XIV.  Benvenuto  Cellini,      .        .        .  .165 

XV.  Public  Cemeteries,           ...  175 

XVI.  Events,  how  related  to  remote  circum- 

stances,     188 

CHAPTER   V. 

Note  XVII.    Cathedralizing,         ....  204 

XVIII.  An  Olla-Podrida,         .        .        .  .225 

XIX.  Dreaming, 265 

XX.  Thoughts  on  a  Play  or  two,       .  .    315 

XXI.  The  Advantages  of  Impudence,     .  343 


EPISTLE    DEDICATORY. 


To   THOMAS   D'OYLY,  Esquire, 

Sergeant-at-Law,  Upper  Harley  street,  London. 

My  Dear  Sir: 

I  pray  permission  to  dedicate  this  little 
volume  to  you,  with  that  high  respect  and  sincerity 
which  your  character  inspires,  and  with  that  grate- 
ful remembrance,  which  your  many  courtesies  to- 
wards me,  make  me  delight  to  cherish.  How 
much,  then,  do  I  regret  its  unworthiness  for  the 
occasion ! 

It  is  the  second  of  a  series,  now  in  course  of 
publication,  on  a  great  variety  of  topics, — the  whole 
being  designed  to  be  illustrative  and  somewhat 
corrective,  of  what  is  called  the  New  School,  and 
to  portray  the   unhappy  influences  of  the   present 


vi  EPISTLE    DEDICATORY. 

mania  in  literature  over  Men,  Manners  and  Things^ 
as  they  appear  chiefly  on  this  side  of  the  broad 
Atlantic — and  also  to  recall  readers  to  some  retro-- 
spect  of  by-gone  days  ;  and  finally,  to  contrast  them 
with  that  fashionable  ultraism  so  prevalent  here,  and 
which  is  no  less  obvious  in  our  law,  government, 
morals,  and  religion,  than  it  manifestly  is  in  our 
popular  literature. 

The  tendency  of  the  present  age  throughout  the 
world,  but  especially  in  my  own  country,  is  towards 
innovation  in  every  thing — which,  though  some- 
times fraught  with  much  good,  has  a  hydra-headed 
demon  to  contend  with,  in  that  spirit  of  ultraism 
and  of  radicalism,  which  prompts  men  to  think  that 
change  must  be  improvement — but  which  the  cau- 
tious venerators  of  the  literature,  the  law,  and  the 
manners  of  the  olden  times,  have  so  often  to  deplore, 
mainly  because  men  will  not  discriminate^-and,  in 
their  eagerness  for  change,  will  root  up  the  sturdy 
oaks,  with  the  noxious  tares. 

With  your  great  and  glorious  and  prosperous 
country,  I  think  I  have  more  than  a  slight  acquain- 
tance. Your  laws  have  been  my  devoted  study,  for 
nearly  thirty  years.  With  your  institutions,  man- 
ners, customs,  and  state  of  society,  I  have  made 
myself  somewhat  familiar,  through  the  medium  of 
your  varied  and  extensive  literature  and  science — 


EPISTLE    DEDICATORY.  Vll 

and  also  by  a  short  residence  in  your  lovely  island, 
where  I  received  that  generous  and  elegant  hospi- 
tality, which  can  never  be  forgotten  by  me. 

The  result  of  the  whole  is  a  solid  conviction, 
that  the  sterling  character  of  the  British  nation 
affords  the  brightest  exemplar  the  world  has  yet 
known  of  genuine  civilization. 

The  Greeks  and  the  Romans  of  Pagan  times, 
and  many  modern  nations  of  Christendom,  were 
and  are,  also,  doubtless  civilized — and  so  are  the 
Chinese,  and  the  Turks:  but  the  truest,  and  most 
infallible  of  all  criterions  of  genuine  civilization  is, 
when  all  things,  in  every  ramification  of  life,  are 
in  perfect  keeping ;  for,  it  is  wuth  nations  as  with 
a  family; — that  family,  however  humble  its  means 
may  be,  is  the  most  civilized,  in  which  every  thing 
is  designedly  in  perfect  order,  and  in  admirable 
keeping. 

In  England  alone,  of  all  ancient  and  modern 
nations,  do  we  find  this  rigid  keeping  in  every 
relation  of  life,  in  every  order  of  society,  in  every 
manifestation  of  their  means,  from  the  monarch  and 
wealthiest  nobleman,  to  the  poorest  of  the  subjects. 
Every  man's  cottage,  or  mansion,  or  palace,  or 
farm,  or  manor,  seems  as  a  mirror  of  his  actual 
condition — each  and  all  in  admirable  keeping.  The 
peasant's  cottage  is  never  garish  with  the  furniture 


Vm  EPISTLE    DEDICATORY. 

of  a  mansion — nor  that  with  the  gorgeous  display 
of  a  palace  ;  but  each  seems  to  know  exactly,  and 
to  respect  with  care,  its  own  defined  periphery,  and 
those  of  others — and  yet,  with  a  perfect  liberty  and 
ability  in  its  proprietor,  to  transcend  it,  whenever 
possessed  of  the  requisite  intelligence,  morals,  man- 
ners, and  means,  for  a  more  exalted  station.  But 
this  is  a  theme  I  must  not  now  dwell  upon,  as  it 
may  be  the  topic,  in  part,  of  a  future  volume. 

I  am,  my  dear  sir. 

With  high  regard. 

Your  most  obedient  servant, 

DAVID  HOFFMANI 

Baltimore,  September,  1839. 


ADDRESS   TO  MY  READERS. 


1  CRAVE  thy  pardon,  if  I  have  counted  without 
mine  host,  in  thus  confidently  anticipating  thou 
^oilt  read  my  book.  Upon  thy  generosity  I  lately 
cast  my  'Miscellaneous  Thoughts  on  Men, 
Manners  and  Things,'  and  now  venture  to  offer 
thee  another  small  volume,  giving  but  a  'Peep 
INTO  MY  Note  Book  !'  Methinks,  I  hear  many 
of  you  say,  'thanks  to  Apollo,  it  is  but  a  peep  !  for 
why  should  v/e  be  troubled  with  thy  cogitations, 
when  the  world  is  overrun  with  'Thoughts'  from 
heads  much  wiser  than  thine  ?  witness  those  of 
Solomon  and  of  Bacon,  or  of  Joe  Miller  and  of 
Lacon !  And,  as  for  thy  'Notes,'  they  are  but 
ruminations  belonging  to  the  same  genus,  and  we 
hoped  to  have  seen  it  made  highly  penal  in  the 
critic's  court,  for  thee  and  others, 

'Unblest  witli  sense  above  their  peers  refin'd, 
Who  thus  stand  up  dictators  to  mankind.' 

and  so  egregiously  molest  the  public  with  a  dull 
melange  of  notions !' 


10  ADDRESS   TO    MT   READERS. 

Softly,  my  exterminating,  but  truly  small  critics? 
take  thy  pen,  and  essay  to  do  better;  and  I  promise 
thee  thou  wilt  find  any  book,  after  it  is  written^ 
seemeth  to  be  a  much  lighter  matter,  than  when  it 
is  yet  to  be  created — for  well  hath  the  poet  said, 
'None  but  an  author  knows  an  author's  cares  ;' 

and  I  have  seen  simpletons  when  gazing  even  on 
the  Vatican  Apollo,  and  the  Venus  of  the  Tribune, 
who  could  think  of  nothing  but  of  the  extreme 
labour  of  paring  off,  from  the  rude  and  massive 
block,  so  much  hard  marble!  Is  it  easier,  think 
ye,  to  write  much,  than  little — on  various  topics, 
concisely,  than  on  one,  fully  ?  Are  not  the  dis- 
tilled essences  of  more  value,  than  the  crude  and 
bulky  simples  from  which,  by  'chymic  art,'  they 
have  been  extracted?  Why  then,  are  'Thoughts' 
and  'Notes'  to  be  dealt  with  so  ungenerously? 
The  quality,  good  Mr.  Critic! — the  quality,  alone, 
should  be  the  question;  and  if  my  duodecimos, 
(though  they  be  royal,)  give  thee  but  terse  thoughts, 
and  brief  notes,  wilt  thou  blame  me  for  not  spread- 
ing these  out  iiUo  wordy  octavos,  or  into  the  still 
more  pretending  quartos?  By  my  modesty  and 
consideration,  thou  hast  been  spared  the  toil  of 
much  reading,  and  likewise  the  dispensing  from 
thy  purse  so  lavishly  as  thou  wouldst  have  done. 
Well  hath  Master  Thomas  Nash,  of  'Lenten  Stuff' 
memory,  said,  'every  man  can  say  bee  to  a  battle- 
dore— write  in  praise  of  virtue  and  the  seven  libe- 
ral sciences — thrash  corn  out  of  the  full  sheaves — 
and  fetch  water  out  of  the  Thames  :  but,  out  of 
dry  stubble,  to  make  an  after  harvest,  and  a  plenti- 


ADDRESS    TO    MV   READERS.  11 

ful  crop  without  sowing;  and  to  wring  juice  out 
of  a  flint,  is  no  every  day  work,  and  belongeth  not 
to  one  of  a  demure  and  mediocre  getius.^ 

And  hence  I  saj'-,  commend  me  to  tiny  volumes, 
which  treat  de  o?72fiibus,  in  the  way  of  distilla- 
tions,— rather  than  to  the  mis-shapen  and  garru- 
lous ofispring  of  an  unbridled  pen.  These  last 
may  be,  and  often  are  in  the  form  of  many  portly 
volumes,  but  are  equally  often  filled  with  the  crude 
vagaries,  and  mawkish  fancies  of  inexhaustible, 
never-ending  tale-tellers;  or,  of  the  still  more  ex- 
citing collectors  of  the  marvels  of  an  overgrown 
metropolis !  From  very  many  of  these  tales  you 
may  extract  a  single  moral,  or  a  single  deep,  and 
eloquently  expressed  thought,  for,  perhaps,  every 
hundred  pages ;  the  residue  being,  perhaps,  a  con- 
geries of  namhij-jjambij  common  places;  of  jejune 
dialogues,  and  of  ill- collocated  words  and  sen- 
tences ! 

And  here  again  doth  Master  Nash  express  him- 
self to  my  mind,  when  he  saith,  'I  had  as  lief 
have  no  sun,  as  have  it  shine  faintly — no  fire,  as  a 
smothering  one  of  small  coals — no  clothes,  rather 
than  wear  linsey-woolsey.'  And  so,  (taking  this 
figuratively,)  do  I  say  that,  as  to  the  sunshine,  fire 
and  clothes,  which  our  daily  literature  doth  fur- 
nish, I  would  dispense  with  them  all,  rather  than, 
as  many  are  accustomed  to  do,  keep  pace  in  my 
reading  with  the  productions  of  the  modern  teem- 
ful  press  !  and  in  my  writwg  with  the  taste  of  the 
day  !  But  I  do  vehemently  suspect  there  be  a 
goodly  number   who   read   and   understand   with 


12  ADDRESS   TO    MY  READERS. 

more  facility,  when  subjects  are  spread  out  unto 
their  widest  dimensions,  than  when  distilled  and 
concentrated  into  their  ultimate  elements.  And 
this  may  be,  after  all,  the  true  secret  which  solves 
the  objection  sometimes  made,  that  thoughts  and 
notes  are  apt  to  be  so  very  concise,  and  to  have  so 
little  of  narrative  or  illustration,  as  necessarily  to 
be  deficient  iri  life  and  interest.  Sage  critics  !  the 
authors  of  such  productions  must  indeed,  plead 
guilty  of  the  fact,  but  still,  not  guilty,  as  to  the 
matter  really  at  issue,  since  they  have  made  no 
promise  to  give  thee  any  thing  approaching  unto 
tales  or  narratives  ;  so  that,  it  would  be  quite  as 
reasonable  in  thee  to  complain  of  a, treatise  of 
algebra,  for  that  it  is  not  poetical,  as  for  thee  to 
find  fault  with  Thoughts  and  Notes,  because  they 
are  not  modelled  into  the  fashion  of  pleasing  tales ! 
And  yet,  in  partial  conformity  to  the  spirit  of 
our  times,  I  have  done  my  poor  endeavour,  in  the 
previous  little  volume,  as  also  in  the  present  one, 
to  blend  with  the  philosophy  of  thought,  and  with 
condensation  of  style,  such  a  measure  of  sprightli- 
ness,  and  of  dramatic  interest,  as  might  harmonize 
with  that  species  of  production.  And  if  it  suits 
not  the  taste  of  some  centre-table  litej-ati,  I  confess 
it  hath  been  made  what  it  is,  under,  perhaps  the 
arrogant,  hope  of  gradually  improving  their  taste ! 
The  literature  of  the  centre-table  is  quite  suscep- 
tible, and  eminently  worthy  of  improvement.  It 
silently  exerts  a  more  powerful  influence  on  socie- 
ty than,  at  first,  may  be  imagined.  Why  should 
novels,  and  poetry  and  the  offerings  of  monthly 


ADDRESS    TO    MY  READERS.  13 

scribblers,  and  the  recherche  articles  of  taste,  and 
magnificent  engravings,  (often,  indeed,  accompa- 
nied by  good  matter,  seldom  carefully  read,  and 
sometimes  not  even  glanced  at,  the  pictures,  and 
the  binding  being  quite  too  splendid,  and,  there- 
fore, too  engrossing  to  invite  unto  study,)  why,  let 
me  repeat,  should  all  these  be  permitted  to  occupy 
the  tables  of  our  tlite,  to  the  almost  total  exclusion 
of  works  of  a  more  thoughtful  and  instructive 
character  ? 

To  elevate  the  standard  of  popular  literature,  and 
especially  of  that  daily  and  hourly  family  reading, 
which  is  taken  up  at  such  intervals  of  comparative 
leisure  as  are  snatched  from  the  more  urgent  and 
regular  occupations  of  life,  it  would  seem  to  be 
essential  that  the  works  should  be,  not  only  en- 
tirely moral,  but  that  the  topics  should  be  various 
and  concisely  treated,  the  learning  a  distillation  of 
thought  treasured  up  from  extensive  reading,  the 
style  animated    and  smooth,  and  the  mechanical 
execution  of  the  volumes  sufficiently  good  to  be 
pleasing,   without  the  least  distraction,   either  of 
mind  or  purse.     Illustrative  and  splendid  engrav- 
ings should  be  either  very  sparingly  indulged  in, 
or  be   found   in   distinct   volumes;    and,  indeed, 
would  be  more  appropriately  placed  on  the  shelves 
of  the  library,  for  occasional  consultation,  since  all 
experience   reveals  the  fact   that,  when  they  are 
combined  with  the  volumes   on   a  parlour   table, 
they  are  extremely  apt  to  seduce  the  mind  from  the 
more  solid  matter,  and  to  content  the  butterfly- 
lookers  into  books,  with  knowledge  gained  picto- 
2* 


14  ADDRESS  TO   MY   READERS. 

rialli/,  and  without  mental  exertion,  rather  than 
with  that  which  may  be  acquired  typographically , 
but  at  the  expense  of  some  thought !  True  it  is, 
this  mode  suits  the  erratic  rapidity  of  our  age; 
but  still  the  artist  must  be  very  clever,  if  he  can 
convey  much  instruction,  unassisted  by  the  letter- 
press. 

This  is  no  slander  of  the  fair  sex,  nor  is  it  ut- 
tered to  the  disparagement  of  the  numerous  class 
of  petit  maitre  admirers  of  the  beautiful  books,  so 
garishly  displayed  on  these  tables ;  for  with  truth 
may  it  be  said,  not  one  tithe  of  the  reading  con- 
tained in  these  highly  embellished  and  illustrated 
volumes,  ever  meets  so  much  as  the  passing  notice 
of  those  even,  who  most  commune  with  them; 
and  until  this  table-library  be  nearly  divorced  from 
such  attractions,  the  hope  is  vain  that  the  frag- 
ments of  our  time  will  be  profitably  improved ; 
and  this  is  the  more  to  be  regretted,  as  the  casual 
moments  thus  unprofitably  occupied,  will  insensi- 
bly influence  and  fashion  the  mind  to  a  still  greater 
disregard  of  solid  reading — so  that  the  more  exten- 
sive library  of  the  family,  or  even  of  the  office, 
becomes  gradually  less  inviting,  than  if  no  centre- 
table,  with  its  diverse  and  ever-changing  accom- 
paniments, had  ever  been  introduced  !  How  much 
the  mind,  especially  when  young  and  untrained, 
may  be  injuriously  affected  by  such  apparently 
trivial  influences,  can  only  be  known  to  those  who 
have  closely  observed  the  matter. 

The   literature    of  the    reading-table   ought    to 
have  produced  a  most  salutary  effect ;    but  it  is 


ADDRESS   TO   MY    READERS.  15 

my  firm  conviction  that  there  is  far  less  useful 
reading,  and  even  less  of  genuine  taste,  since  its 
introduction,  than  when  the  old-fashioned,  select 
family  library  used  to  be  resorted  to ;  whereas,  if 
the  literature  of  this  table  were  rendered  somewhat 
more  solid,  and  if  the  hook-hinder  were  not  per- 
mitted thus  vauntingly  to  domineer  over  the  author ^ 
the  larger  library  would  be  oftener  resorted  to ;  and 
works  of  fine  taste,  and  of  elegant  fancy — splendid 
engravings  and  beautiful  illustrations,  would  be 
coveted  and  studied,  not  as  the  source  of  mere 
visual  gratification,  but  of  high  intellectual  im- 
provement. 

Methinks  I  hear  Papilla,  when  reading  the 
above,  exclaim,  'is  not  this  the  most  inordinate 
vanity  imaginable? — the  Goth  would  actually  expel 
from  our  tables  the  'Book  of  Beauty,' — the 
'Gems  of  Beauty,'  the  'Flowers  of  Loveli- 
ness,' and  all  of  the  splendid  'Annuals,'  and 
'Keepsakes  !'  and  give  us,  in  exchange,  his  moral 
reflections,  and  philosophical  distillations,  as  he  is 
pleased  arrogantly  to  style  them  !'  'It  is  indeed,' 
replies  Whiskerandos,  'positively  shocking;  how 
can  the  man  hope  for  such  a  thing !  surely  the 
world  is  now  too  wise  to  go  back  to  such  stuff!' 
Soft  and  fair,  dear  Miss  Papilla,  and  sage  Mr. 
Whiskerandos !  my  love  for  the  fine  arts,  for  the 
elegancies  of  polished  life,  and  for  all  the  beautiful 
books  you  speak  of,  is  quite  as  ardent  as  your 
own ;  we,  perhaps,  dilfer  only  as  to  the  use  we 
would  make  of  them :  but  let  us  compromise  mat- 
ters ;  you  may  delight  in  all  the  lovely  engravings, 


16  ADDRESS   TO   MY   READERS. 

and  fanciful  gildings  on  the  exterior,  provided  you 
also  carefully"  ^read,  learn,  mark,  and  inwardly 
digesf  that  for  which  all  books  are  made ;  and  on 
the  further  condition,  that  you  fail  not  to  do  the 
same  part  by  mine,  though  they  will  never  have 
any  such  ornate  accompaniments.  You  see,  I  am 
far  from  being  a  monopolist,  of  which  I  will  give 
thee  a  further  proof — in  that  my  simple  desire  is, 
to  win  thee  to  reading  and  reflection;  and  if  thou 
wilt  do  this,  I  shall  be  altogether  content,  shouldst 
thou  never  cast  thine  eye  on  any  one  of  the  pages 
of  my  little  volumes — and  thus,  as  I  hope,  1  have 
now  made  the  amende  honourable,  for  my  momen- 
tary departure  from  gallantry. 

But,  with  the  leave  of  Papilla,  and  of  all  her 
class,  let  me  be  a  little  more  grave,  and  to  my 
purpose. 

In  the  following  pages  my  readers  will  find  I 
have,  in  some  degree,  consulted  the  prevalent 
taste,  by  endeavouring,  occasionally,  to  convey  my 
moral,  or  instruction,  as  the  case  may  be,  in  some- 
thing after  the  fashion  of  a  tale !  and,  when  this  is 
not  the  case,  by  imparting  to  each  theme  as  much 
of  life  and  ease,  as  may  consist  with  the  nature  of 
my  topics — and  of  my  own  nature.  And  yet 
truly,  I  have  never  seen  any  reason  why  the 
gravest,  nay,  even  the  most  recondite  subjects, 
may  not  be  popularly,  and  sometimes  even  spor- 
tively handled ;  and  I  believe  that  the  writings  of 
the  philosophers,  of  the  school-men,  and  even  of 
the  early  fathers  of  the  'mother  church,'  might  be 
thus  dealt  with,  and  profitably  withal,  yet  without 


ADDRESS   TO    MY   READERS.  17 

the  least  disparagement  of  their  dignity— and  that 
when  so  taken  up,  our  surface  readers  may  thus 
gain  some  knowledge  of  facts  and  opinions  in  for- 
gotten literature  and  science,  that  otherwise  might 
never  have  reached  them !  Be  this  as  it  may,  I 
shall  complete  my  series,  in  my  own  way,  both  as 
to  matter  and  manner,  justly  hoping,  but  not  ar- 
dently craving,  that  if  in  the  present  day  and 
generation,  very  many  should  be  disposed  humour- 
ously to  say  of  me, 

'Our  author  thus  with  stuff 'd  sufficiency. 
Of  all  omnigenous  omnisciency, 
Began  (as  who  would  not  begin. 
That  had,  like  him,  so  much  within  ?) 
To  let  it  out  in  books  of  all  sorts. 
In  duodecimos,  large  and  small  sorts  !' — 

the  generation  after  it  may  possibly  exclaim,  'Oh 
Vandal  age,  now  gone  by  !  it  was  not  given  to 
thee,  whilst  in  the  cartilage,  to  be  nourished  on 
the  pith  and  marrow  of  that  author;  but  we,  who 
are  now  in  the  muscle  and  bone  of  maturity,  profit 
by  his  counsels,  and  take  just  pride  in  his  old- 
fashioned  wisdom.'  And  thus  is  it  that  authors 
do  sometimes  take  comfort  unto  themselves,  even 
at  the  moment  that  some  Zoilus  would  deprive 
them  of  this  most  benign  self-complacency. 

But,  you  all  remember  how,  some  thirty  centu- 
ries ago,  a  powerful  monarch,  and  the  wisest  of 
men,  thus  chronicles  a  lesson  of  humility  for  all 
authors — one  that  is,  and  will  be,  equally  true 
in  all  past,  present,  and  future  ages — ^my  son  be 
admonished — of  making  books  there  is  no  end — 
Ttiucli  study  is  a  weariness  of  the  flesh.''     And  yet 


18  ADDRESS    TO    MY  READERS. 

it  would  seem  strange  that  in  his  day,  when  print- 
ing, stereotypes,  and  steam-presses  were  wholly 
unknown,  Solomon  should  have  had  reason  to 
feel  so  strongly  the  vanity,  and  absolute  nothing- 
ness of  authorship !  Where  are  now  the  ^yorks, 
nay  even  the  names  of  the  myriads  who  then 
toiled  for  fame,  if,  for  a  bubble  so  perishable,  they 
did  toil,  which  hath  ever  seemed  to  me  a  most 
unphilosophical  libel  against  the  whole  fraternity 
of  authors,  from  Solomon's  to  the  present  day  ?  I 
cannot  harbour  the  thought  that  the  love  of  fame 
ever  guided  the  pen  of  any  author,  be  he  a  maker 
of  primers  or  of  folios,  and  whether  he  were  a 
Parley  or  a  Shakspeare,  a  Pinnock  or  a  Milton,  a 
Boz  or  a  Bacon,  a  Jack  Downing  or  a  Newton! — 
but  contrariwise,  I  do  verily  opine,  that  nearly  every 
other  conceivable  motive,  rather  than  the  love  of 
praise,  either  present,  or  posthumous,  has  attended 
them  throughout  their  labours  of  the  pen !  To 
recount  the  incitements  that  may  prompt  and  nou- 
rish authorship,  would  itself  require  a  volume,  in 
which  fame,  however,  would  occupy  but  an  insig- 
nificant section.  Even  in  Lord  Byron,  it  was  the 
dread  of  ennui,  an  indomitable  imagination,  a  par- 
tial misanthropy,  or  rather  a  disgust  towards  some 
men  and  things,  a  strong  love  of  satire,  an  arro- 
gant contempt  of  ignorance  and  of  folly — and,  in 
fine,  a  thousand  other  motives  which  stimulated 
his  pen  more  constantly  and  fervently,  than  any 
regard  for  'golden  opinions.'  And  though  the 
noble  author  has  said, 

'Tis  pleasant  sure  to  see  one's  name  in  print; 
A  boolc's  a  book,  although  there's  nothing  iu't ; 


ADDRESS    TO   MY  READERS.  19 

yet  all  know  the  spirit  with  which  this  couplet  was 
written,  and  that  no  one  was  less  inclined  than  his 
lordship,  to  practise  what  he  so  much  condemned 
in  others.  The  truth  is,  fame  is  the  last  and  least 
of  all  the  motives  that  lead  to  authorship  of  any- 
kind — and  if  the  lives  of  Voltaire — of  Lope  de 
Vega,  of  Bacon — of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  nay  of  all 
other  voluminous  writers,  be  closely  examined,  I 
cannot  but  think  it  would  be  found  that  much 
stronger,  and  more  numerous  incitements,  than  the 
praises  of  men,  led  them  on  from  small  beginnings 
to  great  results,  in  authorship.  Young,  in  his 
epistle  to  Pope,  has  recorded  some  of  the  motives ; 
and  he  might  have  easily  filled  his  poetical  letter 
with  them. 

'Some  write  confin'd  by  physic  ;  some  by  debt ; 
Some,  for  'tis  Sunday :  some  because  'tis  wet ; 
Another  writes  because  his  father  writ. 
And  proves  himself  a  bastard  by  his  wit.' 

And  I  may  add,  some  write  because  they  are  the 
merriest  crickets  that  chirp;  others,  lest  they  should 
be  drowned  in  their  own  gall,  did  they  not  periodi- 
cally vent  their  spleen;  some  write  from  mere 
repletion  of  learning ;  others  from  doubts  whether 
they  possess  any  !  With  some,  composition  is 
scarce  an  intellectual  toil,  but  affords  them  the 
highest  mental  gratification  ;  with  others,  it  is  a  la- 
bour essential  to  the  fixation  of  their  thoughts,  and 
to  the  ascertainment  of  their  own  resources ;  some 
without  the  least  alloy  of  selfishness,  are  actuated 
solely  by  the  hope  of  benefitting  their  readers; 
others  are  prompted  by  every  other  selfish  conside- 


20  ADDRESS    TO    MY  READERS. 

ration,  save  that  of  fame.  Be  the  motive,  how- 
ever, what  it  may,  no  author,  in  our  day,  judging 
from  the  past,  can  repose  with  much  confidence, 
on  securing  the  grateful  remembrance  of  future 
ages.  Dr.  Johnson  was  the  idol  of  his  day,  and  for 
half  a  generation  after  !  but  his  Dictionary,  which 
made  him,  now  reposes  on  many  shelves,  as  mere 
dead  lumber;  and  even  our  scholars  seem  to  de- 
light in  demonstrating  his  etymological  ignorances! 
Who,  of  this  nineteenth  century,  now  reads  the 
Rambler? — not  one  in  ten  thousand  !  Who,  as  in 
former  days,  now  with  delight,  pour  over  his  truly 
admirable  Lives  of  the  Poets?  Not  one,  in  as 
many  hundred — his  poetry  ?  one  here  and  there — 
his  Miscellaneous  Works?  scarce  any  !  And  so  of 
Milton,  Pope,  Bolingbroke,  Goldsmith,  with  the 
exception  of  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ;  and  Hume, 
likewise,  excepting  his  History  of  England.  Who 
now  reads  Spencer — Chaucer — Ben  Johnson — 
Davenant — Glover — Marvell — Daniel — Cartwright 
— Hurdis — Chamberiayne — Sir  Philip  Sydney — 
Sir  John  Suckling,  or  even  the  best  among  the 
early  English  dramatic  writers? — iQ\f^  very  few! 
And,  may  we  not  with  truth  ask,  are  not  the  plays, 
even  of  the  immortal  bard  of  Avon,  comparatively 
but  little  rfead,  and  still  less  often  enacted ;  and 
have  they  not  recently,  sought  more  genial  realms, 
and  become  more  familiar  to  German,  than  even  to 
English  ears?     Well  hath  Spencer  exclaimed. 

How  many  great  ones  may  remembered  be, 
Which  in  their  days  most  famously  did  llourish, 
Of  whom  no  word  we  hear,  nor  sign  now  see, 
But  as  things  wip'd  with  sponge  do  perish  ! 


ADDRESS   TO   MY   READERS.  21 

Now,  what  hath  been  said  is  no  exaggerated  pic- 
ture of  the  instability  of  an  author's  fame  ;  and 
shows,  moreover,  that  quantity  hath  often  been 
foohshly  permitted  to  obUterate  nearly  all  estima- 
tion for  quality ;  and  that  the  works  of  the  most 
sublime  genius,  equally  with  those  from  the  most 
leaden-heads,  seem  destined  to  be  overwhelmed  by 
an  inordinate  love  of  novelty,  generated  by  the 
trashy  biblio-redundancy  of  the  present  day. — 
What  author,  then,  can  be  so  weak,  as  to  repose 
on  a  fame,  so  truly  ephemeral — a  fame,  which  if 
reaped  even  with  acclamation,  scarce  endures  as 
long  as  many  shrubs  of  his  garden ;  and  when  his 
works,  if  not  his  name,  are  infallibly  swallowed 
up  by  the  coming  wave  of  a  merely  popular  and 
crude  literature !  Hath  not  each  year  or  two,  if 
not  month,  its  fashionable  author ;  and  is  not  the 
idol  now,  sure  to  be  soon  obscured  or  forgotten, 
amidst  the  halo  of  him  who  is  next  on  the  ascen- 
dant? The  richest  and  most  enlarged  fame,  is 
but  sufficient  to  transmit  an  author's  7?ame;  none 
has  ever  yet  secured,  for  a  great  length  of  time, 
numerous  readers.  And  though  Homer's  name 
has  passed  current  through  nearly  three  thousand 
years,  yet  how  few,  comparatively,  have  ever  read 
either  the  Iliad  or  the  Odyssey !  Shakspeare's 
name  is  on  the  mouth  of  every  one — and  yet  not  a 
twentieth  part,  even  of  the  reading  community, 
born  in  the  present  century,  have  ever  read  his 
plays !  His  name  pervades  Christendom,  but  he  is 
read  only  by  an  extremely  small  portion  of  the 
British,  American  and  German  people  !  The  ope- 
3 


22  ADDRESS   TO    MY    READERS. 

rative  fame  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  been  as  great, 
perhaps,  as  that  of  any  other  author,  of  modem  or 
even  of  ancient  days,  not  excepting  even  Petrarch 
and  Dante ;  and  yet  his  numerous  works,  with  all 
their  solid  worth,  are  gradually  yielding  place  to 
others,  whose  readers,  pressed  by  the  continual 
flow  of  new  works,  can  find  but  little  time,  even 
for  the  Waverly  Novels !  So  that  the  day  may 
well  come,  and  may  not  be  distant,  when  Sir 
Walter's  name^  brilliant,  like  that  of  Shakspeare 
and  Milton,  will  scarce  retain  sufficient  ardour  to 
command  the  reading  attention  of  one  in  a  thou- 
sand, even  of  the  reading  public ! 

Witness  the  morbid  taste  that  devours  (to  the 
exclusion  of  almost  every  other  species  of  intellec- 
tual nouriture)  those  really  admirable  works,  now 
so  noised  in  the  world,  under  the  euphonic  names 
of  '■Pickwick^  and  '■  Niclcleby ^''  awdi  ^Slick,''  yea,  and 
also  an  hundred  of  the  like  genus,  as  destitute, 
however,  of  their  conceded  genius,  as  is  an  egg  of 
squareness !  It  is  not  the  philosophy,  the  truth, 
the  morals,  or  the  information,  to  be  extracted  from 
these  fashionable  volumes,  that  these  fashionable 
readers  are  really  in  search  of — for  these  all,  are 
very  apt  to  be  either  neglected  by  such  diseased 
appetites,  or,  to  be  wholly  evaporated  by  the  keen 
excitement  occasioned  by  the  spicy  and  ludicrous 
materials  which  every  where  abound  in  them,  and 
which  mainly  constitute  the  vehicle  by  which  they 
are  imparted.  Nothing,  now-a-days,  can  render 
sound  knowledge  and  sober  morals  even  endurable, 
unless  fiction  and  fu?i  be  more  than  prominent — 


ADDRESS  TO   MY   READERS.  23 

and,  doubtless,  even  all  history,  metaphysics,  yea, 
perhaps,  even  mathematics,  and  our  holy  religion 
will  have  to  be  ere  long,  handed  over  to  the 
broadly  grinning  pens  of  this  very  popular  class  of 
writers  !  I  love  to  laugh,  and  heartily  too,  yet  not 
always,  or  on  all  subjects — but  such  is  the  mania, 
now,  for  the  ludicrous,  that  we  may  soon  look  for 
a  Principia  Newtoni,  edited  by  some  Nicholas 
Nickleby ;  or  a  Polyglot  Bible,  illustrated  by  a 
second  Cruikshanks !  for,  unless  philosophy  be 
thus  disguised  by  fun,  and  morals  be  gilded  at  all 
points  by  the  fascinations  of  romance,  I  w&qh  that 
all  the  sohd  books  of  former  days  will  be  consigned 
to  the  worms,  or  their  contents  be  cooked  up  in 
more  palatable  dishes  from  the  cuisine  of  'Messrs. 
Jack  Downing,  Boz,  Slick  &;  Co.!'  (an  admira- 
ble firm  I  admit,)  but  still,  not  one  that  should 
swallow  up  such  as  'Messrs,  Bacon,  Shakspeare, 
Johnson  &  Co.'  and  many  others  that  might  be 
named. 

The  truth,  however,  is  that  the  existent,  and 
used  literature  of  almost  any  age,  but  especially  of 
our  own,  when  compared  with  that  which  is  un- 
known, or  forgotten,  'as  of  the  days  beyond  the 
flood,'  forms  but  an  insignificant  portion  of  the 
'world  of  books.'  Nearly  every  age  has  had  its 
favourite  and  peculiar  knowledge,  which  has  super- 
seded, or  newly  fashioned  that  of  preceding  times ; 
and,  in  looking  through  the  long  vista  of  time,  there 
is  nothing  in  man's  history  that  more  forcibly  shows 
the  uncertainty  of  his  attainments,  and  the  fleeting 
duration  of  even  the  philosopher's  fame,  than  the 


24  ADDRESS   TO   MY    READERS. 

thousand  systems  and  theories  that  rise,  culminate, 
and  fall!  "Where  are  now  the  much  vaunted  and 
infallible  knowledge  of  Aristotle,  the  vortices  of 
Descartes,  the  learning  of  the  astrologists,  the  deep 
researches  of  the  alchemists,  the  experiments  of 
the  phlogistians,  and  the  innumerable  other  devices 
of  human  invention,  and  of  supposed  inestimable 
discovery? — you  must  seek  for  them  among  the 
things  that  are  forgotten;  and  though  they  may 
have  reigned  supreme,  in  their  day,  as  positive 
knowledge^  and  have  gained  their  authors  much 
fame,  they  are  now  regarded  but  as  so  many  idle 
fancies,  that  have  brought  as  much  reproach,  as 
lustre  upon  our  species  !  If,  then,  in  the  days  of 
Solomon,  he  could  truly  say,  '■there  is  nothing  neiv 
under  the  sun^  how  many  cycles,  and  revolutions, 
and  changes  have  the  great  mass  of  human  ideas 
since  performed  ! — like  the  congregated  and  blend- 
ed waters  of  the  ocean's  vast  reservoir,  they  have 
assumed  an  infinitude  of  forms — they  pass  into 
clouds  and  vapours — they  descend  on  the  earth 
in  rain,  snow,  hail,  frosts,  and  dews — they  form 
springs,  and  rivulets,  and  rivers,  and  lakes  and 
seas ;  and  at  last,  disappear  in  the  great  abyss ;  but 
again,  at  various  intervals,  and  under  new  modifi- 
caiions,  to  re-appear  in  other  regions,  and  in  other 
ages ! 

Whether,  in  the  glorious  days  of  Israel's  great 
monarch,  the  world  were  as  populous  as  now, 
can  scarce  be  known  ;  but  if  the  copia  librorum 
were  then  deemed  an  evil,  it  must  be  a  still  greater 
one  at  this  lime  \  if,  indeed,  an  evil  it  can  be  at  all. 


ADDRESS    TO   MY   READERS.  25 

The  earth  is  computed  now  to  contain  about  eight 
hundred  millions  of  inhabitants — the  larger  part  of 
whom  are  grossly  illiterate  and  without  books; 
and  yet,  it  is  not  improbable,  there  are  now  as 
many  printed  and  manuscript  volumes,  (not  distinct 
works)  as  there  are  people  on  the  face  of  the  globe; 
and  in  Christendom,  vastly  more!  Book-making 
seems  to  go  on  in  a  kind  of  geometrical  ratio,  for 
the  very  purpose,  it  would  seem,  of  keeping  pace 
with  population  ;  thus  giving  another  proof  against 
Mr.  Malthus,  who  says  that  population  increases  in 
that  ratio  ;  but  that  the  supply  of  food  is  only  an 
arithmetical  progression ! 

Had  the  millions  of  volumes  that  now  repose, 
in   dusty  oblivion,  in  our  numerous   public  and 
private   libraries,   the  faculty   of  locomotion,  and 
of  speech,  withal,   so   as  to  reveal  their  hidden 
treasures   to    willing   auditors,   what  a  march  of 
7?iind  would   then   ensue!     But,  as  matters   now 
are,  it  would  require  the  press  to  be  vastly  more 
prolific  than  it  is,  before  its  redundancy  could  be 
justly  regarded,  if  ever,  as  an  essential  evil.     We 
are  not  used   to  complain   of  too   much  air,  nor 
yet  of  too  much  earth,  or  water;    why  then  of 
too  many  books?     This  per  se,  cannot  occasion  a 
diminution  of  readers ;  nor  is  it  the  cause  even  of 
superficial  reading — neither  the  quantity,  nor  the 
quality  being,  of  itself  an  evil,  much  to  be  com- 
plained of      What,  then,  is  the  true  ground   of 
complaint?     It  surely  is  not  over-much  reading, 
nor  indiscriminate  reading;  but  merely  and  wholly 
that  the  reading  of  our  day  is  rather  guided  by 
3» 


26  ADDRESS   TO   MY   READERS. 

fashion,  by  a  love  of  novelty,  and  an  indomitable 
passion  for  excite7neiit,  than  by  any  sound  judgment 
and  careful  selection — and  finally,  that  many  per- 
sons are  mere  collectors  of  books,  who  are  mainly 
content  with  looking  at  them !  Were  every  indi- 
vidual, on  the  contrary,  true  to  himself,  how  idle 
would  the  complaint  then  be,  that  his  field  for 
selection  was  too  vast ! 

Whilst  authors,  therefore,  are  humiliated  by 
this  unfounded,  and  oft  reiterated  lament,  readers 
should  remember  that  the  fault  is  wholly  their 
own;  for  although  the  natural  atmosphere  may 
be  vitiated  by  many  noxious  elements  flowing 
into  it,  the  world  of  good  books  must  continue 
unchanged,  though  very  many  worthless  ones  may 
issue  daily  from  the  press.  Proximity,  or  juxta- 
position between  books,  can  occasion  no  contagion 
or  infection  among  their  contents  ;  the  virtuous 
and  the  vicious  reciprocally  will  continue  to  avoid 
what  suits  not  their  taste ;  and  after  all,  the  useless 
and  vicious  books,  compared  with  those  of  various 
degrees  of  merit,  would  be  found  so  truly  insignifi- 
cant, as  scarce  to  be  worthy  of  notice. 

All,  then,  that  is  required  is,  that  we  should 
abandon  a  morbid  love  of  novelty,  an  unmeaning 
fashion  in  literature;  and  select  with  some  judg- 
ment, from  the  works  of  all  ages,  and  of  all  nations. 
Were  such  the  conduct  oi  readers^  with  what  pride 
might  authors  then  frequent  the  now  almost  deso- 
late halls  of  the  numerous  libraries  of  Europe — 
which,  though  daily  visited  by  a  few  strangers,  to 
take   a  passing  look  at  the   myriads  of  printed 


ADDRESS    TO    MY   READERS.  W 

volumes  and  manuscripts — and  also  by  a  little 
fraternity,  of  zealous  students,  who,  in  utter  disre- 
gard of  fashion  pay  their  ardent  homage  to  the  pro- 
ductions of  all  ages,  and  of  all  nations,  are  still, 
comparatively,  forsaken  halls,  because  the  general 
public  have,  of  late,  too  much  encouraged  the 
notion  that  nearly  all  that  dates  beyond  the  present 
century,  should  be  consigned  to  the  oblivion  of 
dusty  shelves,  as  fit  only  for  professors,  for  book- 
worms, and  biblio-maniacs — curious  to  look  at,  but 
unfit  to  be  read,  except  by  such  devotees  ! 

I  repeat,  then,  were  readers  to  select  with  judg- 
ment, uninfluenced  by  fashion,  by  the  love  of 
novelty,  and  by  a  mawkish  taste  for  mere  excite- 
ment, authors  would  feel  a  just  pride  at  then 
seeing  these  libraries  crowded  with  readers ;  each 
taking,  as  it  were  from  a  sea  of  volumes,  to  suit 
his  individual  taste.  Then  would  the  Bodleian, 
at  Oxford,  the  Library  of  the  British  Museum, 
at  London,  the  BihliotMque  du  Roi,  of  Paris,  the 
Lmperial  Libraries  at  Vienna  and  St.  Peters- 
burg, the  Royal  Library,  at  Dresden,  and  that 
of  the  Vatican,  be  no  longer  the  occasional  resort 
of  the  idle  and  merely  curious,  but  the  habi- 
tual rendezvous  of  crowds  of  zealous  students, 
offering  at  the  shrine  of  the  congregated  genius 
and  learning  of  all  ages,  their  deepest  devotions, 
without  inquiring  whether  their  productions  are 
wet  from  the  press — are  in  gorgeous  binding — or 
enriched  with  splendid  engravings  !  These  would, 
indeed  be  halcyon  days  for  authors :  and  then, 
even   the  meritorious  primer,   would    receive   its 


28  ADDRESS   TO    MY   READERS. 

meed  of  notice,  and  of  praise.  But,  alas !  as  mat- 
ters now  are,  we  are  compelled  to  fear  that  even 
Sir  Walter,  and  all  who  aspire  to  be  classed  with 
him,  cannot  but  have  often  sighed,  when  passing 
through  the  avenues  of  these  extensive  libraries,  to 
find  countless  volumes  of  great  excellence,  and 
once  so  famous,  now  resting  in  undisturbed  and 
dusty  oblivion ;  some  of  them,  perhaps,  for  ages, 
and  many  of  equal  worth,  though  but  a  few  years 
old,  already  placed  on  remote  shelves,  among  past 
and  nearly  forgotten  literature !  Did  they  not 
therein  perceive  their  own  inevitable  doom?  and 
was  there  not  a  still,  small  voice  that  whispered, 
'see  /  to  this  ice  must  all  come  at  last — nay  shortly  P 
Who,  then,  let  me  again  ask,  would  write  for 
fame? 

But  books,  unto  some  men,  and  especially  unto 
authors,  are  as  so  many  idols :  and  if  they  be,  to  a 
ievT,  even  loathsome,  and  to  others,  things  of  in- 
difference, and  to  many,  objects  of  an  unmeaning 
fashion,  occasioning  them  to  be  purchased,  and, 
possibly,  to  be  hastily  read  ;  yet  all  this  deters  not 
an  author  from  writing  and  publishing,  so  long  as 
he  delights  in  intellectual  exertion,  and  hopes  his 
works  may  prove  useful,  even  to  a  select  few ! 
Such  an  author  will  remember  how  often  he  hath 
seen  (maugre  the  alleged  redundancy  of  the 
press)  a  libraryless  scholar  of  great  worth,  on  the 
one  hand,  and  a  vast  collection  made  by  some 
wealthy,  but  illiterate  and  selfish  bibliomaniac, 
on  the  other,  to  whom,  with  old  Fuller,  he  might 
have    said — Salve    doctor,   sine    libris,    unto    the 


ADDRESS   TO   MT   READERS.  29 

former,  and  Salvite  libri,  sine  doctor e,  unto  the 
latter:  the  one  he  would  strongly  encourage  with 
every  soothing  language ;  the  other's  proud  crest 
he  would  razee  down,  until  he  found  for  him,  his 
true  and  ignoble  level !  With  what  exultation, 
moreover,  would  such  author  throw  open  to  the 
bookless  scholar,  the  recherche  library  of  one  of 
these  churlish  collectors,  whose  only  connection 
with  books  is  to  see  them  magnificently  bound, 
fancifully  arranged,  and  caligraphically  catalogued! 
And  how  different  would  be  the  emotions  (if  any) 
of  such  a  mere  collector,  when  contemplating  his 
books,  from  the  enthusiasm  of  Richard  de  Bury, 
who,  when  surveying  his  library,  exclaimed — Hi 
sunt  magistri  qui  nos  instruunt  sitie  vergis  et 
ferula,  sine  verbis  et  colera,  sine  'pane  et  pecunia. 
Si  accedis  non  dormiu7it ;  si  enquiris  non  se  abscon- 
dunt ;  non  remurmurant  si  oberres ;  cachinos  si 
ignores.  The  li.ke  feelings  also  actuated  Bar- 
THOLiNi,  in  his  dissertation  De  libris  legendi, 
when  he  thus  naively  and  laconically  declares,  the 
praises  of  books — Sine  libris,  Deus  jam  silet,  Jus- 
titia  quiescity  torpet  Medicina,  Philosophia  manca 
est,  LettercB  multm,  omnia  tenebris  involuta  dm- 
meriis:  and  Cicero,  contemplating  a  friend  sur- 
rounded by  a  library,  evidently  regarded  it  as 
among  the  most  enviable  of  conditions — Emn 
vidi  in  Bibliotheca  sedentem,  multis  circumfusis 
LIBRIS.  Est  enim,  ut  sis,  in  eo  inexhausta 
AviDiTAS  legendi,  nee  sactiari  protest. 

An  author,  then,  has  both   an  abstract,  and  a 
practical  delight  in  books;  and  possesses  none  of 


30  ADDRESS    TO    MY   READERS. 

those  niggard  motives,  which  a  crude  and  miscel- 
laneous world  would  impute  to  him.  Even  fame, 
with  its  silvery  sounds,  and  golden  promises  to  the 
ear,  comes  late,  if  it  comes  at  all ;  and  passes  but 
feebly  over  his  mind,  as  an  incitement  to  exertion. 
And,  be  he  an  author  of  primers,  or  of  folios — of 
fancy's  tales,  or  of  the  weightier  matters  of  Law 
or  of  Metaphysics,  his  own  gratification  is  ever 
sufficient  for  him,  without  the  adscititious  aid  of  a 
fame,  which,  if  it  happen  to  extend  much  beyond 
his  own  localities,  is  still  very  sure  to  perish,  long 
before  his  paternal  dwelling,  though  of  wood,  has 
sought  its  kindred  earth  !  ! 

I  have  said  thus  much  to  account,  as  well  as  it 
may,  for  the  small  share  I  have  had,  or  may  have, 
in  authorship :  but,  Gentle  Reader,  of  this  be 
assured  ;  I  care  not  a  carlino  what  thy  opinion 
may  be  ;  for,  if  this  volume,  the  preceding  ones, 
and  those  which  may  follow,  be  without  merit,  I 
should  be  the  last  to  desire  to  see  them  valued ;  but, 
if  they  prove  worthy,  they  will  not  be  neglected, 
by  some  few — at  least,  among  people  of  judg- 
ment,— and,  as  to  the  rest,  they  are  a  '■profanwn 
vulgus^  of  whom,  if  I  do  not  say  '■odi  et  arceo^  it 
is  not  because  I  do  not  feel  so  ;  for  truly,  it  is  not 
in  my  nature  to  covet  their  admiration. 

David  Hoffman. 

Baltimore,  June,  1S39. 


PEEP   INTO   MY   NOTE   BOOK. 


CHAPTER  I. 

I.  THE  LONDON  CROSSINGS. — II.  CHRISTIAN  BURIAL — 071  <«T/IS. 
III.  SECLUSION  FROM  THE  WORLD. — IV.  THE  YOUNG 
INEBRIATE. 

NOTE  I. — THE  LONDON  CROSSINGS. 

It  is  said  that  nature  abhors  a  vacuum,  and,  of 
course,  that  she  loves  a  plenum  !  Now,  as  it  seems 
to  me,  there  is  in  this  more  than,  at  once,  meets 
the  eye  ;  for  in  truth,  this  principle  is  the  copious 
source  of  all  the  action  and  vitality  of  life.  Hence 
is  it  that  the  infinitesimal  interstices  of  time,  which 
by  the  idle  are  not  only  thrown  away,  but  are  to 
them  absolutely  invisible,  are  to  the  industrious, 
fragments  of  great  moment,  out  of  which  they 
compose  hours,  days,  and  weeks  of  usefulness ; 
and,  by  collecting  them,  they  Met  no  particle  of 
time  fall  useless  to  the  ground.'  So,  likewise,  in 
crowded  communities,  thousands,  nay  millions, 
live  on  the  very  refuse  and  parings  of  the  innu- 


32  THE   LONDON   CROSSINGS. 

merable  vocations  of  life,  which  in  the  detail  seem 
valueless,  but  in  the  aggregate  will  be  found  to 
sustain  the  larger  portion  of  human,  and  of  other 
existences  ! 

A  traveller  can  scarce  occupy  himself  more 
amusingly,  and  profitably,  withal,  than  in  solving 
the  difficulty  that  is  sure  to  present  itself  to  his 
mind,  on  passing  through  the  teeming  streets  of 
an  immense  city — when  he  involuntarily  asks 
himself,  'what  is  it  that  sustains  these  myriads 
of  people,  how  is  it  that  they  seem  to  live  upon 
one  another?'  not  indeed,  by  that  great  law  of 
nature,  the  bellum  omnium  in  omiiia,  but  by  a 
principle  the  reverse  of  this ;  for  they  reciprocally 
create  for  each  other's  use,  but  most  of  them  in  so 
minute  a  way,  as  nearly  to  elude  detection.  To 
find  out  the  secret,  then,  of  this  great  problem,  you 
must  not  only  visit  their  manufactories  of  every 
kind,  great  and  small,  but  you  must  go  into  the 
abodes  of  poverty,  and  of  untold  wretchedness,  and 
examine  how,  and  on  what,  they  live ;  and  you 
will  there  find  that  there  is  absolutely  preserved 
from  destruction,  and  converted  to  innumerable 
salutary  purposes,  more  than  the  closet  philosopher 
can  well  credit ;  and  that  the  poveri,  whose  sole 
employment,  during  many  hours  of  the  day,  is  the 
collection  of  these  offals,  are  not  only  thereby  sus- 
taining themselves,  but  adding  immensely  to  the 
augmentation  of  individual  and  national  wealth ! 

This  politico-economical  exordium  may,  possi- 
bly, seem  as  little  connected  with  the  theme  of  my 
note,  as  an  Ionic  capital  on  an  Egyptian  column  ! 


THE    LONDON    CROSSINGS.  33 

but  the  phenomena  of  mental  associations  would 
soon  explain  this;  and  he  is  no  metaphysician  who 
would  expect  that  I  should  stop  and  explain  it. 

On  a  chilly  November  day,  I  found  myself 
enveloped  in  a  yellow  and  black,  humid,  and 
dirty  atmosphere,  not  unappropriately  called,  in 
this  mammoth  town,  'pea-soup  weather !'  The 
crossijigs  as  usual  were  somewhat  dry  and  fast 
land,  with  a  wall  of  villanous  mixture  on  either 
side,  which  seemed  to  have  a  provoking  proclivity 
to  run  in  upon  the  path,  in  spite  of  the  man, 
woman,  or  child,  as  the  case  might  be,  with  a 
stout  birch  broom,  who  assiduously  applied  it, 
with  one  eye  intent  on  their  office,  and  the  other, 
no  less  so,  on  the  numerous  persons  that,  on  tip- 
toe, were  hurriedly  passing  over.  These  sweepers 
had  generally  received  my  grateful  attention  ;  but, 
in  passing  over  Old  Cavendish  street,  a  very  inte- 
resting little  girl,  barefooted,  and  in  rags,  importu- 
nately solicited  the  customary  charity  which,  from 
the  haste  I  was  then  in,  or  from  the  influences  of 
the  murky  atmosphere,  I  know  not  which,  I  rudely 
checked  and  dismissed  her  penniless!  Proceeding 
on  my  way,  my  heart  was  ill  at  ease  ;  and  my 
hand  coming  in  contact  with  my  purse,  admo- 
nished me  of  my  cruel  rebuff, — so  that  my  steps 
were  soon  retraced  to  seek  the  little  sufferer. 

'Are  you  not  very  cold,  my  little  girl?' — 'Indeed, 
yes  sir,  and  hungry  too  ;  I  hurt  my  foot,  (which 
was  tied  up  in  a  coarse  rag,)  and  it  pains  me  very 
much  this  muddy  weather.'  'Have  you  a  mother?' 
rejoined  I — 'No  sir,  this  autumn  is  three  years 
4 


34  THE    LONDON    CROSSINGS. 

since  my  mother  died.'  'And  your  father?'  'He 
is  a  tin  workman,  is  very  poor,  and  not  able  now 
to  do  work,  having  chopped  off  his  fore  finger;  I 
have  three  sisters  and  one  brother.'  'At  what  time 
of  day  do  you  come  to  this  work  ?'  'At  eleven 
o'clock,  your  honour,  every  day,  saving  Sunday, 
and  leave  off  at  five ;  but  before  eleven,  I  pick  up 
old  rags,  paper,  twine,  and  any  thing,  and  make 
a  ievj  half  pence,  almost  every  day,  in  that  way.' 
A  flood  of  thought,  as  well  as  of  feeling,  rushed 
into  my  mind  :  'this  little  utilitarian,'  said  I  men- 
tally, 'is  more  nobly  and  profitably  employed  in 
her  humble  vocation,  than  many  of  the  children 
of  afiiuence ;  we  often  curse  the  flies,  and  thou- 
sand insects  that  crowd  the  air,  and  treat  them 
rudely,  and  even  murder  them  recklessly,  though 
God  hath  assigned  them,  in  procuring  their  daily 
sustenance,  the  salutary  office  of  purifying  the  air, 
that  man  may  breathe  it  the  more  freely  !  and  I, 
regardless  of  a  like  great  law,  would  have  chubbed 
this  poor  child,  who  in  her  humble  station,  forms 
a  link,  however  small,  in  the  great  chain  that  binds 
together  the  countless  occupations  of  life  !' 

Recovering  from  this  momentary,  and  rapid 
musing,  'but  little  girl,  are  you  quite  sure  you 
are  telling  me  the  truth  ?'  'Oh  yes  sir,  my  mother 
and  father  always  told  me  how  great  a  sin  it  is  to 
tell  lies  ;  and  our  Sunday-school  teachers  tell  us 
that  constantly.'  'Well,  come  with  me,  and  you 
shall  have  a  pair  of  shoes.'  No  painter,  nor  sculp- 
tor, nor  well  devised  words,  could  portray  the 
heavenly  expression  that  played  over  the  child's 


THE    LONDON    CROSSINGS.  35 

countenance  at  this  announcement !  Surprise,  and 
joy,  and  gratitude,  all  delightfully  blended,  beamed 
from  her  face,  removed  every  insidious  doubt;  and, 
at  once,  more  than  thrice  repaid  me.  As  she  fol- 
lowed on,  looking  for  a  shoe-store,  I  proposed  to 
enter  one.  If  you  please  sir,  not  in  there,  I  should 
like  to  get  a  good  strong  serviceable  pair,  and  I 
fear  none  such  could  be  got  there,  they  are  made 
for  the  quality  folks.'  So  1  abandoned  myself  to 
her  direction  ;  and  arriving  at  one,  'perhaps  you'd 
be  so  good  as  to  give  me  a  pair  of  quarter- boots, 
they  would  keep  me  much  warmer  than  shoes,  and 
would  serve  me  longer.'  Her  preference  was  grati- 
fied, and  she  perfectly  fitted.  By  this  time,  the 
child  had  winned  greatly  upon  my  sympathies, 
and  her  cold  feet,  now  clad,  reminded  me  of  stock- 
ings— these  were  soon  procured, — but  this  com- 
fortable equipment  ill  assorted  with  the  thin  and 
miserable  rags  around  her  person  ;  so  we  entered 
another  store,  and  a  warm  flannel  petticoat  was 
added  to  her  stock ;  which  however,  so  poorly 
suited  to  come  in  contact  with  her  tattered  frock, 
that  this  deficiency  was  also  supplied.  'And  now, 
my  little  girl,  here  is  a  shilling  for  your  dinner' — 
and  so  we  parted,  she  to  her  crossings,  and  I  to 
my  almost  forgotten  visit.  On  arriving  at  the  spot 
where  the  'still  small  voice'  had  turned  me  back  to 
my  duty,  I  breathed  far  more  freely,  and  marvelled 
to  think  how  much  balm  to  my  own  feelings  had 
been  procured,  for  the  paltry  sum  of  fifteen  shil- 
lings ;  the  little  girl  I  met  again ;  but  more  of  that 
anon. 


36  THE    LONDON    CROSSINGS. 

My  visit  being  accomplished,  I  was  much  struck 
on  my  return,  close  to  the  same  crossings,  with  the 
unique  appearance  of  a  lame,  and  tattered  negro, 
as  much  like  'Jim  Crow'  as  two  peas;  my  heart 
yearned  towards  him,  for  I  thought  of  my  own 
dear  country,  and  supposed  he  was  from  thence — 
such  being  the  sympathy  that  often  springs  up, 
in  a  foreign  land,  which  like  misery,  makes  us 
willing  to  claim  strange  fellowships  ! 

'And  what  is  your  employment,  Csesar?'    'Why, 
massa,  my  name  is  not  Casar,  but  I  picks  up  a 
few  pence  in  doing  almost  any  thing.     I  wanted  a 
crossing,  but  that  there  little  gal  yonder,  would'nt 
let  me  distarb  her,  for  she  had  it  long  fust  ago, 
and  so  its  not  consionable  for  me  to  do  so,  massa.' 
'I  am  glad  you  think  so,  your  conscience  spoke 
truly ;    and  I   hope  you  will  never   trouble  that 
little  girl — for  if  she  be  as  good  as  she  seems  to 
be,  I  will  protect  her — but  where  did  you  come 
from,   and   what   brought   you   to   the    country  ?' 
"Why,  massa,  I  am  from  St.  Kitts,  and  am  wait- 
ing for  my  money.'     'For  your  money!  my  good 
man,  why  what  do  you  mean?'      'It's  fourteen 
thousand   pounds,  massa,  th^e  money  is  all  here, 
and  I  have  the  certificate  from  the  commissioner.' 
'Why,  then,  are  you  now  so  poor,  and  naked,  and 
who   withholds   your   money?'     'Why,  massa,  I 
don't   comperhend,  at  all,  why  I  don't  get  it — I 
have  been  told  so  many  things  about  it,  which 
I  don't  comperhend,  that  I  begin  to  be  affeard  I 
shall  nebber  get  it  at  all.'     'Have  you  any  one  to 
attend  to  it?'     'Yes,  massa,  a  lawyer,  but  he  seems 


THE    LONDON   CROSSINGS.  37 

to  me  a  small  one,  not  a  qualitij  one ;  but  the  Afri- 
can Sciety  has  lately  promised  to  get  it  for  me — so 
ray  lawyer,  I  spose,  must  gin  it  up,  and  I  shall  be 
rite  glad  on  it.'  'Well,  my  good  fellow,  I  suppose 
all  you  tell  me  is  true?'  'Lord,  massa,  I'll  go  this 
instant  wid  you  to  the  Sciety.'  'Well,  then,  here's 
a  half  crown,  so,  good  morning.' 

What  a  microcosm  is  this  London !  It  verily 
seemeth  to  me  that  here  may  be  found  an  exem- 
plar of  every  variety  of  the  human  race  the  world 
affords  ;  and  that  man  has  never  yet  been  carica- 
tured, not  even  by  that  prince  of  caricaturists, 
CruikshanUs ;  who  having  painted  individuals 
faithfully  from  the  life,  and  happily  blended  and 
concentrated  them  under  humorous  associations, 
has  produced  effects  so  truly  amusing,  and,  appa- 
rently, so  exaggerated,  that  the  realities  of  life 
seem,  at  first,  to  be  lost  in  the  mere  creations  of 
a  fertile  imagination — but  let  this  pass. 

A  few  days  after  the  occurrences  I  have  men- 
tioned, I  had  occasion  again  to  pass  the  crossing 
in  Cavendish  street,  and  how  great  was  my  morti- 
fication in  seeing  the  little  sweeping  girl  clad  in 
her  former  rags,  and  even  with  naked  feet !  She 
instantly  recognized  me,  and  responded  to  my 
silent  and  penetrating  look  of  reproof,  by  a  manner 
so  truly  artless,  and  with  such  an  openness  of 
countenance,  as,  at  once,  in  great  part,  restored 
my  confidence.  'What  have  you  done  with  the 
clothes,  and  why  are  you  again  almost  naked  V 
'I  am  trying  to  get  them  back  again  from  our  land- 
lord, who  took  all  from  me,  for  my  father's  rent ! 
4* 


38  THE    LONDON    CROSSINGS. 

We  have  to  pay  him  every  Saturday  night,  and  it 
is  now  three  Saturdays  since  he  got  any,  except 
the  shining  your  honour  gave  me,  and  one  of  my 
own  ;  he  has  been  very  kind  in  waiting  so  long, 
and  in  one  week  more  I  hope  I  shall  pay  him  all ; 
the  things  are  all  safe,  I  saw  them  all  this  morn- 
ing, and  if  you  will  go  with  me,  you  can  count 
them  all  yourself  I  promptly  looked  and  acted 
assent  to  her  proposition,  and  she  and  I  were  soon 
at  the  door  of  the  flinty-hearted  and  merciless 
landlord.  Surely  it  was  no  apple,  however  beau- 
tiful in  varied  hues,  and  mellow  with  delicious 
juices,  that  could  have  brought  'death  into  the 
world,  with  all  our  woes' — but  palpable  coined 
money  ! — money,  not  only  the  'root,'  but  the  stem, 
branch,  bud,  flower,  seed,  and  fruit  'of  all  evil !' 

She  bid  me  enter,  and  spoke  to  those  within,  of 
her  hope  to  pay  them  all  in  a  week  or  more,  to 
redeem  her  clothes — nothing,  however,  but  the 
monosyllables,  'well,'  'good,'  'do  so,'  escaped  the 
lips  of  those  around  her,  who  seemed  to  be  the 
landlord  and  his  tender-hearted  companion  for  hfe ! 
My  heart  sickened  within  me,  I  could  not  speak — 
I  was  satisfied  of  her  perfect  truth,  and  of  man's 
more  than  barbarous  nature:  and  suddenly  leaving 
the  little  girl,  I  hastened  home,  resolved  to  pour 
out  the  full  torrent  of  my  indignant  feeling  in  a 
more  tangible  and  enduring  form,  than  in  rash  and 
spoken  words  !  And  such  a  letter  ! ! — but  there  it 
rests,  as  first  it  was  recorded  in  my  note-book — 
and  there  it  shall  remain,  unscrutinized  by  other 
eye  than  his  who  penned  it — and  why? — because 


CHRISTIAN  BURIAL — 071  ierms.  39 

the  little  girl,  with  far  better  sense  than  mine, 
thankfully  handed  me  back  my  ireful  epistle,  when 
I  called  at  the  crossings  at  the  close  of  the  week, 
with  the  seal  unbroken,  saying,  'you  see,  sir,  our 
landlord  has  been  paid  by  me,  and  I  have  now 
my  clothes  on.  I  feared  his  great  anger  against 
my  father,  if  I  delivered  your  letter,  and  so  I  hope 
your  honour  will  excuse  me  in  disobeying  your 
order.'  'I  truly  do,  my  little  girl,  and  am  happy 
to  find  you  far  more  discreet  than  myself.'^  So 
taking  my  leave,  I  found  that  I  had  learned  from 
this  child  at  the  crossings,  three  things — that  we 
can  live  happily  and  virtuously  on  very  little — that 
an  economical  people  may  live  on  what  a  thriftless 
people  (as  we  Americans)  set  little  or  no  s^ore  by — 
and  lastly,  that  it  is  often  far  better  to  be  coun- 
selled, as  this  child  was,  by  the  calculations  of 
prudence,  than  by  the  impulses  of  feeling,  as  I 
was,  however  honest  they  may  have  been. 


NOTE    II. CHRISTIAN    BURIAL 071   terms. 

The    sun    had    just   set,   in    glowing   colours, 
through  a  mass  of  transparent  clouds,  that  hung 

over  the  summit  of  Monte ,  when  I  arrived  at 

the  only  locanda  of  a  small  village,  situate  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain.  The  house  had  a  most 
forbidding  aspect ;  but  the  wearied  traveller  in 
Italy,  is  sometimes  not  permitted  to  be  fastidious  ; 
and  is  most  happy  to  obtain  shelter  and  food, 
however  indifferent  they  promise  to  be.  My  car- 
riage door  was  incontinently  beset,  by  a  crowd  of 


40  CHRISTIAN  BURIAL — 071  terms. 

miserable  old  men,  haggered  old  women,  impo- 
verished children,  bandit-looking  young  men  ;  all 
of  them  the  importunately  begging  poveri  of  a  dirty 
and  dilapidated  town  ;  which,  if  it  had  ever  known 
better  days,  could  only  have  been  in  some  pre- 
ceding century  !  The  rudeness  with  which  the 
padrone  soon  made  an  opening  for  me,  through 
this  mass  of  human  depravity  and  wretchedness, 
greatly  shocked  me  for  a  moment ;  until  finding 
that  they  pressed  in  upon  me,  at  all  sides,  exposing 
their  deformed  and  horridly  diseased  limbs,  as 
provocatives  to  my  bounty,  and  forcing  themselves 
with  me  up  a  long  flight  of  muddy  stone  stairs,  to 
the  very  door  of  the  salle  a  manger^  I  became 
assured  that  locks  and  bolts,  as  well  as  the  pa- 
drone's harshness,  were  needed  for  my  protection, — 
they  being  quite  too  numerous  to  be  appeased  by 
alms,  in  an  ordinary  way. 

The  room  door,  however,  was  finally  closed 
against  them  ;  and  the  servants,  in  time,  obtained 
the  mastery  over  them,  on  the  outside ;  but  from 
the  windows  I  perceived  they  had  resumed  their 
former  station  before  the  portal, — apparently  in 
readiness  for  other  comers  !  Shortly  after,  a  small 
two-horse  berlin  drove  up,  and  a  like  attack  was 
made  upoa  it.  The  crowd,  however,  on  finding 
that  the  vetturino  had  to  take  the  only  individual 
it  contained,  in  his  arms,  and  carry  him  up  stairs, 
he  being  apparently,  nearly  in  the  article  of  death, 
quietly  retired  from  the  house,  as  if  superstitiously 
shocked  with  the  presage  of  death,  so  likely  soon 
to  follow  !    The  unfortunate  stranger   was  taken 


CHRISTIAN  BURIAL — 071  terms.  41 

by  the  vetturino,  into  a  gloomy  and  damp  cham- 
ber, destitute  of  fire  and  carpet,  and  so  barren  of 
every  comfort,  even  for  a  well  man,  that  all  the 
beauties  and  charms  of  Italy  were,  for  the  moment, 
forgotten  by  me  ;  and  I  felt  as  if  the  whole  land 
was  cursed  with  ignorance,  superstition,  vice,  dis- 
gusting maladies,  and  hopeless  beggary  !  All  who 
have  visited  that  country  must,  I  think,  have 
experienced  the  like  alternations  of  feeling, — for 
beauty  and  deformity — wealth  and  poverty — mag- 
nificence and  meanness — adoration  and  profanity — 
piety  and  superstition — ignorance  and  learning — 
cleanliness  and  beastiality — genial  sunny  skies  and 
gloomy  chilling  blasts — lovely  women  and  loath- 
some hags,  are  all  more  strangely  blended,  and 
more  frequently  witnessed  there,  than,  perhaps, 
in  any  other  land  ! 

Italy  is  truly  a  country  greatly  blessed  of  God, 
and  cursed  of  man — one  to  be  loved  and  hated — 
sought  and  avoided — praised  and  blamed  ; — a  coun- 
try that  all  must  desire  to  visit,  few  to  live  and  die 
in — a  land  of  numerous  reminiscences,  quite  as 
full  of  pain,  as  of  pleasure — a  land  where  civilized 
man  was  never  greater,  and  yet  where  civilized 
man  was  never  more  debased — a  land,  in  fine, 
where  may  be  culled  all  that  ennobles,  and  all  that 
dishonours  our  species  !  Is  it  strange,  then,  that 
a  traveller  should  experience  over  his  feelings, 
these  passing  clouds  that  obscure,  for  a  time,  the 
recollection  of  better  things?  I  think  not — and  so 
it  was  with  me,  when  I  beheld  an  interesting 
youth,  who  had  come  from  some  distant  country, 


42  CHRISTIAN  BURIAL — ou  tevms. 

to  seek  among  these  far  famed,  'soft  blue  skies,  and 
balmy  air,'  a  medicament  for  diseased  lungs,  and 
a  half  expiring  constitution,  lying   in   a  room  so 
cheerless,  so  comfortless,  as  this !     And  yet,  how 
often  have  travelling  invalids   to  experience  this 
and   still  more,   in  Italy !     Let  none   such  come, 
unattended   by   erery   mean-s   of  securing  all  the 
advantages  and  comforts  that  may  there  be  found — 
for  they  do  exist,  but  are  only  to  be  obtained  with 
some  care,  and  with  no  little  exercise  of  prudence ; 
but,  in  the  absence  of  these,  Italy,  as  it  seems  to 
me,   is   the  last  of  countries  that  a  diseased  man 
should  seek.     This  digression  ended,  proceed  we 
now   to    the  object  of  our  Note. — The  chamber 
door,   of  the  diseased  youth,  was  beset  with  the 
curious  lookers-on  ;  some  of  whom  were  crossing 
themselves,  as  if  in  the  immediate  presence  of  the 
grim  monarch,  for  the  youth  seemed  in  much  pain, 
and  looked  upwards,  with  so  intense  a  gaze,  that 
heaven    was    manifestly    the   sole    object  of   his 
thoughts.     Appliances  for  the  body  were  not  for  a 
moment  thought  of — the  stranger's  soul  demanded 
instant  ministration  ;  and  a  shorn  and  belted  priest, 
of  'holy  catholic  church,'  was  soon  in  the  stran- 
ger's presence. 

'You  seem  very  ill,  my  young  friend,'  said  the 
padre^  'and  I  have  come  to  make  your  path  to 
heaven,  as  smooth  as  may  be,  to  us  sinners.'  'I 
am,  indeed,  very  ill,'  replied  the  youth,  'and  have 
need  of  spiritual  comfort, — much  of  which  I  find 
in  this  blessed  volume — but  I  truly  thank  you 
for  your  pious  errand.'     'This  volume  is  indeed. 


CHRISTIAN  BURIAL — Oil  terms.  43 


the  door  to  life  eternal,'  rejoined  the  padre,''  (taking 
the  protestant  testament  from  his  spiritual  patient, 
eyeing   it   with   a  rapid   scrutiny,   then  laying  it 
silently  on  the  table,  and  abruptly,  but  softly,  inter- 
rogating him,)  'do  you  die  a  catholic  V     'I  hope,' 
said   the   youth   'to   die   a  christian.''     'True,  my 
young  friend,  but  I  wish  to  hear  you  say,  you  die 
a  catholic  christian.'     'I  find  no  such  an  adjunct 
in  any  of  the  Scriptures,'  gently  added  the  young 
man.     'That  may  well  be  so,  to  your  vision;  but 
you  will  find  it  in  all  of  the  Fathers  of  our  holy 
church,  who  understood  the  Scriptures,  and  knew 
the  traditions  of  our  religion  far  better  than  yoa 
do, — and  they  were  all  catholics.'     'Is  it  not  now 
too  late  for  me  to  settle  such  nice  points  of  faith  V 
feebly  rejoined  the  youth.     'It  is  never  too  late — > 
remember  the  thief  upon  the  cross  !'     'True,  sir,  it 
can  never  be  too  late  to   repent,  which  the   thief 
did,  but  without  having  time  to  solve  any  of  the 
deep  questions  that  might,  even  then,  have  been 
put  to  him  ;  and   which,  if  put,  could  have  only 
uselessly  agitated  his  soul — my  reply  to  you,  my 
good    friend,  is,  that   I  humbly  trust  I   shall  die 
a  christian.'     'But   how  can  you    be   a  christian, 
unless  you  are  a  catholic  ;  is  not  i\\e  faith  one,  and 
the  church  oneV     'The  faith,  indeed,  oii^ht  to  be 
one,  and  the  church  one  ;'  rejoined  the  young  man, 
'but  alas  !  I  find  a  thousand  faiths,  and  as  many 
churches  ;    and  hence,   padre,    I   do  desire  to  go 
back   to  the  first   faith,  and   to  the  first  church.' 
The  eyes  of  the  importunate  son  of  the  church, 
brightened  with  pleasure  at  these  words  ;  but  the 


44  CHRISTIAN  BURIAL — on  tcrms. 

youth  continned.  'Alas !  where  can  I  find  this 
unmixed  faith,  and  primitive  church  ?  I  see  it  not 
among  the  cathoHcs,  nor  yet  even  among  the  pro- 
testants ;  and  therefore  is  it  that  I  would  seek  to  be 
a  mere  christian,  with  no  other  prefix  or  affix ;  and 
this,  as  it  seems  to  me,  can  be  found  only  in  the 
Holy  Scriptures,  designed  for  babes,  as  well  as  for 
learned  Fathers.'  The  padre  suddenly  arose, 
bowed,  and  retired, — audibly  muttering,  'had  he 
but  said  he  died  a  catholic,  he  would  have  had  a 
christian  burial — but  now,  he  must  be  laid  in  the 
earth  as  a  heathen,  or  a  dog  !' 

I  could  contain  myself  no  longer.  I  had  wit- 
nessed the  colloquy,  with  some  vexation  of  spirit, 
and  no  little  astonishment — but  this  last  unfeeling 
intimation  to  a  dying  man,  nearly  overwhelmed 
me;  and,  approaching  his  bed,  I  gently  took  the 
youth's  hand,  'you  have  fought  a  good  fight,'  said 
I,  'and  in  me,  you  will  find  a  friend  wiihoui  con- 
ditions.'' He  ardently  thanked  me — but  his  time 
had  evidently  come — he  died  that  night ! 

On  the  following  day  I  sought  out  the  padre, 
and  his  holy  associates ;  but  they  were  all  inflexi- 
ble— so  the  youth  was  deposited  in  unhallowed 
ground,  alongside  of  no  mortal !  but,  I  confess,  I 
was  pleased  to  find  no  lights  burning  around  his 
remains,  no  orisons  olfered  up,  by  such  earthy 
christians,  who  seemed  so  much  more  to  value  a 
confession  of  catholic  faith,  than  the  heart-felt  out- 
pourings of  a  primitive  christian  repentance !  No 
latin  formulas,  moreover,  were  pronounced  over 
his  coffin ;  but  he  was  unceremoniously  laid  in  his 


SECLUSION    FROM    THE    WORLD.  45 

solitary  grave — far — far  from  his  home  and  friends ; 
whilst  the  by-standers  were  looking  on,  to  see  how 
a  heathen  should  be  buried  ;  and  some  of  the  dig- 
nitaries of  the  church  were,  also,  hard-by,  seeming 
to  look  i?idig7iaiioti,  that  such  youthful  firmness 
could  resist,  in  a  catholic  land,  the  importunities 
and  threats  of  the  'Holy  Mother  Church.' 


NOTE    HI. SECLUSION    FROM    THE    WORLD. 

Man  is  essentially  a  social  being — society  is 
his  natural  element — all  the  amiable  affections  of 
the  heart  receive  in  it  their  due  expansion — all  the 
powers  of  his  mind  are  there  invigorated;  and,  if 
he  may  suffer  the  poisons  which  float  in  its  atmos- 
phere to  corrupt  him,  so  may  he  also  be  sure  of 
being  strongly  nourished  by  the  elements  of  good 
which  every  where  abound.  There  are  some  who 
are  misanthropes,  so  there  are  atheists ;  but  as 
even  the  existence  of  the  latter  has  been  doubted, 
the  former  are  almost  equally  rare. 

To  me  it  has  been  ever  most  evident,  that  those 
who  mix  freely,  but  not  lavishly  with  the  world, 
are  often,  not  only  more  exempt  from  narrow  pre- 
judices, and  from  vulgar  jealousies,  but  that  their 
morals,  and  even  their  religion,  when  they  once 
overtly  profess  it,  are  apt  to  be  of  the  most  elevated 
and  truly  christian  stamp :  whereas,  those  who, 
from  any  cause,  habitually  shun  the  converse  of 
society,  especially,  if  from  fear  of  the  contagion  of 
bad  example,  are  very  apt  to  fall  into  greater  errors 
themselves ;  and  frequently,  by  an  over-saintly 
5 


46  SECLUSION    FROM    THE    WORLD. 

avoidance  of  communion,  foster  such  a  self-com- 
placency, false  pride,  and  uncharitable  view  of 
men  and  things,  as  are  greatly  at  variance  with 
that  bland  and  holy  spirit  which  so  eminently 
marked  their  great  Master. 

I  have  scarcely  ever  seen  man  or  woman,  after 
retiring  from  their  associations,  and  habitually 
seeking  for  happiness  in  the  resources  of  their  own 
minds,  in  their  books,  or  even  in  their  own  parti- 
cular cliques,  who  weie  not  somewhat  deficient  in 
christimi  charity!  They  may  have  abandoned 
many  vices,  they  may  have  conformed  to  many 
new  and  excellent  rules  of  life,  and  very  properly 
have  separated  themselves  from  many,  nay,  from 
most  of  their  former  associations,  and  yet  have 
gone  too  far  in  looking  for  the  virtues — the  solaces 
of  the  heart — the  guards  of  religion,  in  retirement. 
An  acerbity  of  temper,  a  jaundiced  view  of  life,  a 
melancholy  contemplation  of  religion,  a  narrow 
conception  of  the  glories  of  nature,  and  even  of 
the  attributes  of  Deity,  seem  almost  universally 
to  predominate  in  such  people. 

Those  who  selfishly  avoid  the  world,  that  they 
may  shun  the  possibility  of  contagion,  are,  indeed, 
less  criminal  than  those  who  perseveringly  fre- 
quent it,  with  no  other  view  than  to  reap  its 
pleasures,  with  an  heart  unmindful  of  the  great 
Author  of  all  sources  of  rational  enjoyment :  but 
the  loftiest  christian  character  is  he  who  contem- 
plates all  life  as  a  vast  garden,  full  of  beauteous 
flowers,  of  goodly  trees  and  shrubs  bearing  whole- 
some and  savoury  fruits, — a  garden  refreshed  by 
many  rivulets,  and  limpid  fountains,  pouring  forth 


SECLUSION    FROM    THE    WORLD.  47 

Streams  of  living  waters  !  And  though  there  be  in 
it  many  rocks,  and  precipices,  and  noxious  weeds, 
and  quicksands,  and  muddy  pools,  yet  remembers 
that  Man  is  every  where  to  be  found  therein — 
every  where  to  be  ministered  unto — every  where 
to  be  sought  after ;  and  that  his  province  is  to  dwell 
in  this  garden,  seeking  whom  lie  may  serve,  never 
solely  intent  on  securing  the  goods  and  avoiding 
the  evils  ;  but,  whilst  he  is  constantly  striving  to 
rescue  some  from  the  dangers  that  may  beset 
them,  takes  due  care  of  himself,  lest  he  be  dashed 
from  the  precipices,  poisoned  by  the  weeds,  or  be 
merged  in  the  pools  and  quicksands,  that  may 
environ  his  paths. 

When  SiMiLis  withdrew  himself  from  court, 
perhaps,  from  satiated  appetites,  and  became  an 
impassioned  admirer  (all  at  once)  of  retirement, 
which  he  indulged  in  during  the  seven  last  years 
ui  his  life— he  prepared  the  following  inscription 
foi*  his  tomb  : 

'Here  lies  Similis.     His  life  was  seventy-six  years; 

He  lived  but  seven!' 

Were  we,  however,  to  inquire  minutely  into  the 
arcana  of  Similis'  life  during  these  vaunted  seven 
years,  it  is  quite  probable  we  should  find  it  stained 
by  much  of  selfism ;  and  brightened  by  less  of 
charity  towards  his  species,  than  during  his  long 
period  at  court,  though  surrounded  by  so  many 
worldly  glories ;  and  that,  on  the  whole,  he  bene- 
fitted many  more,  during  the  years  he  would  thus 
unceremoniously  have  expunged  from  the  recol- 
lection of  his  existence,  than  during  the  seven 


48  SECLUSION    FROM    THE    WORLD. 

years  of  his  beloved  and  rigid  retirement.  The 
life  of  a  courtier  may,  indeed,  be  characterized  by 
uselessness,  folly,  and  vice  ;  but  it  may  be  equally 
full  of  beneficence,  of  wisdom,  and  of  virtue.  The 
error,  then  of  Similis  was  double,  first  in  not  fully 
improving  the  wide  field  which  his  courtly  station 
afforded  him — and  next,  in  supposing  that  seclu- 
sion from  the  world  could  benefit  either  himself  or 
others.  In  the  world,  we  may  do  much  good — in 
retirement,  this  is  scarce  possible.  In  the  presence 
of  man,  we  see  things  as  they  are,  and  learn  how 
to  avoid  and  to  mitigate  evils  ;  but  in  seclusion  a 
veil  is  drawn  before  us,  that  either  obscures,  or 
falsely  colours  most  things.  And  yet  we  should 
not  fail  to  distinguish  the  life  of  a  religeuse,  how- 
ever recluse  it  may  be,  from  that  of  a  disappointed 
and  exhausted  worldling,  who  seeks  retirement 
from  misanthropy,  having  at  the  same  time,  none 
of  those  consolations  that  flow  from  communion 
■with  the  spiritual  world.  The  former,  though  apt 
to  entertain  some  erroneous  views  of  his  duties 
towards  God  and  man,  is  still  most  honest  in  his 
purposes ;  has  a  peaceful  conscience ;  and  is  in  the 
direct  road  to  Heaven.  His  partial  demerit  con- 
sists in  falsely  supposing  that  life,  as  it  is,  must  be 
wholly  shunned  by  him,  since  communion  with  it 
brings  either  imitation,  Hhat  siains  our  innocetice^'' 
or  disapproval,  that  '■woimds  our  peace.''  This, 
however,  as  it  seems  to  me,  is  false  philosophy ; 
for,  as  piety  consists  as  nuich  with  society,  as  with 
retirement,  imitation  of  folly,  or  of  vice  is  far  from 
being  a  necessary  result;  and  disapproval  of  them, 


SECLUSION    FROM   THE    WORLD.  49 

SO  far  from  being  a  source  of  wounded  peace,  is  a 
high  duty,  the  performance  of  which  may  well  be 
a  source  of  happiness. 

Seclusion  from  society,  on  the  other  hand,  when 
it  springs  from  the  satiety  of  too  much  enjoyment ; 
or  from  wounded  ambition,  which  generates  misan- 
thropy, is  generally  a  mental  disease  that  should 
excite  pity,  rather  than  strong  reproach.  It  is  a 
state,  moreover,  barely  consistent  with  religion  of 
any  kind;  for,  the  mind  disgusted  with  the  remi- 
niscences of  sated  passions,  or  brooding  over  the 
past,  with  vain  regrets  at  disappointed  schemes, 
looks  not  to  the  future,  either  here  or  hereafter,  as 
a  source  of  calm  enjoyment ;  and  all  that  such  a 
mind  can  then  hope  for,  would  be  little  more  than 
a  negative  or  joyless  existence. 

But,  dismissing  these  two  classes,  is  there  any 
other  really  recluse  life  that  is  sustained  by  posi- 
tive merit?  Not  one  that  my  fancy,  even,  can 
well  conceive — for,  the  retirement,  so  fascinatingly 
described  by  the  poets,  is  but  a  withdrawal  from 
the  pleasures,  the  cares,  and  the  responsibilities 
of  hfe,  that  we  may  luxuriate  in  enjoyments  of 
another  kind  :  it  is  but  changing  the  scene,  bring- 
ing with  it,  indeed,  no  disgust  of  life;  and  is 
nothing  more  than  decided  preference  of  novel  to 
past  pursuits,  of  the  soberness  of  reflection,  to 
the  turmoil  of  action ;  of  quietude,  to  scenes  of 
excitement — all  of  which  perfectly  consists  witli 
an  enlarged  charity,  and  with  the  most  elevated 
views  of  life's  utilities.  This  can  scarce  be  called 
retirement  at  all,  it  is  but  the  bodifs  absence,  the 


5»^ 


50  SECLUSION    FROM   THE    WORLD. 

mind  is  often  in  the  world,  often  in  society.  But 
when  retirement  begins  to  generate  the  least 
moroseness ;  and  when  the  mind  commences 
to  prey  on  itself,  the  sweet  waters  of  life  soon 
become  embittered ;  their  gentle  currents,  though 
but  little  agitated  by  exterior  causes,  are  much 
disturbed  by  those  which  rage  within  ;  and  it  is 
not  long  before  the  savage  feelings  of  our  nature 
are  displayed  in  bold  relief! 

The  transition  from  scenes  of  activity,  whether 
of  usefulness  or  the  reverse,  to  those  of  inaction 
and  retirement,  is  seldom  attended  by  an  increased 
stock  of  real  happiness,  or  with  a  genuine  meliora- 
tion of  the  moral  and  intellectual  character  ;  and  it 
is  too  often  the  case,  that  those  who,  without  full 
consideration,  abandon  the  town,  for  the  solitude 
of  the  country,  greatly  degenerate  in  both. 

Those  who,  after  being  long  accustomed  to  the 
elegant  refinements  of  high  and  poUshed  life,  seek, 
from  any  cause,  seclusion,  seldom  retain  that  buoy- 
ancy of  manners,  that  amiableness  of  feelings,  that 
generosity  of  opinion,  and,  finally,  that  amenity 
in  all  things,  which  had  previously  marked  them. 
What  once  was  liked,  has  now  become  offensive 
to  them;  they  surrender  themselves  to  discontent 
and  peevishness;  and  if  not,  they  have  often  con- 
tracted, insensibly  and  unconsciously,  other  habits, 
and  other  manners,  which  place  them  ill  at  ease, 
when  accident  or  necessity  brings  them  occasion- 
ally into  life.  Now,  all  this  may,  and  should  be 
carefully  avoided ;  first,  by  never  permitting  our- 
selves, when  in  full  association  with  life,  to  be 


SECLUSION   FROM   THE   WORLD.  51 

seduced  by  its  fascinations  into  any  actions  or 
habits,  so  essentially  wrong,  as  to  cause  such 
regrets,  when  the  sober  judgments  of  retirement 
pass  them  in  review;  and  secondly,  by  so  stu- 
diously guarding  our  hearts  and  minds,  after  we 
have  sought  seclusion,  that  they  shall  retain,  as 
jewels  worthy  of  preservation,  all  the  amiable 
traits  of  character  we  may  have  cherished,  when 
shining  as  brilliant  stars,  in  a  brilliant  society — 
and  lastly,  by  occluding  from  our  minds,  as  fatal 
to  our  peace,  those  vulgar  and  unfounded  notions, 
so  common  with  the  recluse,  that  the  world  has 
been  daily  growing  worse  sifice  we  left  it ! 

Were  these  the  actuating  principles  of  conduct 
when  we  have  abandoned  the  gayeties  of  life,  for 
the  supposed  charms  of  solitude,  how  rich  in  sub- 
stantial enjoyments  might  a  life  of  retirement  then 
become !  But,  when  society  is  forsaken  from  mis- 
taken views  of  religion — from  the  satiety  of  too 
much  enjoyment  by  ill  regulated  minds — from  the 
disgusts  consequent  upon  disappointed  ambition — 
from  a  wayward  and  unsettled  temper  which  fan- 
cies happiness  attendant  upon  novelty  and  conti- 
nued change — or  lastly,  from  romantically  seeking 
after  the  charms  of  solitude,  as  they  are  delineated 
by  the  poet,  or  the  novelist;  who  does  not  perceive 
that  the  result  must  be  inevitable  defeat  of  expec- 
tations, filling  the  mind  with  harsh  views  of  all 
that  was  once  familiar  to  them,  and  with  but  little 
power  to  separate,  justly,  the  good  from  the  evil? 

Give  me,  then,  the  man  or  woman  who  fears  not 
the  world;  lest  their  morals  and  religion  may  suf- 


52  SECLUSION    FROM   THE    WORLD. 

fer — commend  me  to  those  who,  whilst  they  judi- 
ciously and  conscientiously  avoid  temptations,  have 
the  moral  courage  to  labour  in  the  vineyard,  and  to 
meet  and  resist  them — to  those  who  view  life  as 
full  of  sweets,  as  well  as  of  bitters,  though  infi- 
nitely blended — to  those  who  regard  it  as  their 
duty  to  cull,  with  unvarying  care,  the  goods  so 
bounteously  lavished  around  us,  though  mixed 
with  evils  equally  to  be  shunned — to  those,  in 
fine,  who  boldly  use  their  talent^  and  labour  with 
it  in  the  world^ — and  not  to  those  who,  fearing  the 
contagion  of  the  world,  would  bury  their  talent. 

Whether,  however,  it  has  been  erroneous  views 
of  our  duty  to  God,  to  man,  or  to  ourselves,  that 
have  urged  a  worldling  into  solitude,  we  generally 
find  that  people  who  live  in  a  corner,  are  very  apt 
to  imagine  every  thing  peculiar  to  themselves ! 
This  contracted  thought,  begets  selfishness,  arro- 
gance, silly  prejudices,  and  acerb  tempers;  so  that 
it  may  well  be  doubted,  whether  it  be  possible  to 
indulge  in  a  segregation  from  society,  and  from  the 
social  principle  towards  our  species,  without  nuich 
impairment  of  the  noble  qualities  of  the  mind,  and 
the  best  affections  of  the  heart.  And  I  have  ever 
been  forced  to  think  that  these  solitaries,  though 
they  may  have  been  once  among  the  most  elite  of 
an  extensive  and  brilliant  society,  had  then  taken 
to  their  bosom  a  serpent,  which  their  new  habits 
could  scarce  fail  to  nourish;  and  which,  in  time, 
would  poison  unto  death,  their  newly  sought  hap- 
piness. 

Even   such  as  from  worldly  motives,  partialhj 


SECLUSION    FROM    THE    WORLD.  53 

retire  ;  and,  in  the  midst  of  a  populous  city,  seek 
to  be  exclusives,  are  sure  to  reap  an  abundant 
harvest  of  jealousies,  of  crude  prejudices,  and  of 
acerb  feelings,  destructive  of  that  serenity  which 
springs  from  peace,  and  from  generous  relations 
with  all  around  us.  By  this,  however,  I  would  by 
no  means  inculcate  the  impracticable  notion  that 
society  can,  or  should  be  one ;  and  that  the  man  of 
virtue,  of  intelligence,  and  of  refinement,  is  not  to 
be  permitted  to  steer  his  course,  if  easily  he  may, 
from  the  vicious,  the  ignorant,  and  the  vulgar  ; 
and  towards  those  with  whom  he  can  assimilate. 

Society  truly  has  its  various  and  distinctive  ele- 
ments ;  which,  by  a  law  of  affinities,  settle  down, 
as  unerringly,  into  separate  classes,  as  do  the  natu- 
ral elements,  by  their  various  chemical  attractions, 
into  distinct  bodies.  All,  then,  that  I  do  mean  is 
that,  whenever  these  exclusives  become  desirous  to 
study  these  moral  aflinilies  with  an  over-nice  exac- 
titude, they  introduce  thereby  into  their  afiections, 
an  anti-social  principle,  that  will  infallibly  diminish 
their  happiness;  and  further,  tlmt  all  who,  from 
any  cause,  prefer  seclusion  to  such  an  indulgence 
of  society  as  springs  from  the  most  generous  feel- 
ings towards  the  human  family,  will,  soon  or  late, 
find  the  amaranthine  verdure  of  life  parched  up ; 
its  clear  skies  often  overcast ;  and  its  pure  and 
limpid  waters  mostly  bitter  and  turbid. 

All  ages,  conditions,  tempers,  and  pursuits  of  life 
have,  indeed,  their  own  and  appropriate  society  ; 
and,  in  the  autumn,  or  winter  of  life,  nature,  as 
well  as  God,  admonishes  us  of  the  nearness,  even 


54  SECLUSION    FROM    THE    WORLD. 

to  the  door,  of  other  scenes  of  far  greater  interest, 
as  they  are  eternal  in  the  heavens  !  But  this  is  no 
reason  why  the  whole  of  life  is  so  to  be  regarded. 
In  one  sense,  truly,  every  one  from  the  cradle  to 
the  grave^  should  live  as  if  these  extremes  were 
separated  by  no  interval  of  time — that  is,  he  should 
be  ever  pious :  but  the  most  sublimated  piety,  as 
we  think,  is  far  from  inculcating  that  the  active 
exercise  of  our  affections  is  to  be  invariably  the 
same  through  life — a  notion  contradicted  by  all  the 
analogies  of  nature,  and  of  every  feeling  both  of 
soul  and  body. 

The  dictate  of  true  wisdom,  then,  is  to  live  every 
where  and  under  all  circumstances,  as  a  social 
being;  to  enjoy  society  in  such  degrees  and  kinds, 
as  shall  banish  all  moroseness,  all  local  and  indi- 
vidual prejudices;  and  so  to  live  in  the  world  as  to 
reap  its  fruits,  and  to  use  them  without  stint,  and 
yet  without  excess.  Were  this  more  generally  the 
case,  the  gossiping  portion  of  our  species,  whether 
in,  or  out  of  society,  would  greatly  diminish  ;  and 
solitude  would  only  be  occasionally  sought  (as  it 
ever  should  be)  as  a  season  of  relaxation  from 
mental  or  bodily  excitements,  and  as  an  appro- 
priate time  for  that  sober  and  calm  reflection,  which 
every  mortal  needs.  But,  when  retirement  is  car- 
ried beyond  this  salutary  limit,  it  tends  to  evil,  by 
giving  to  the  ever  vigilant  enemy  of  human  hap- 
piness, far  better  opportunities  for  overwhelming 
temptation,  than  he  ordinarily  possesses  over  well 
regulated  minds  in  society. 

The  foregoing  thoughts  flitted  through  my  mind, 


THE    YOUNG    INEBRIATE.  55 

after  remembering  how  much  the  lovely  Marcia 
depreciated  in  solitude  !  During  twenty  years,  she 
never  talked  as  much  scandal,  nor  displayed  half 
as  much  severity  in  her  comments  on  men  and 
things,  as  she  has  done  in  the  year  or  two  of  her 
partial  retirement  from  the  world,  and  from  her 
accustomed  circle  !  And,  also,  how  the  accom- 
plished NiCANOR,  once  the  best  dressed  man  of  his 
time,  sensible  and  temperate  withal,  is  no  longer 
either !  for,  after  being  rusticated  only  a  few  years, 
Nicanor  suffers  his  hair  to  hang  in  all  imaginable 
rude  luxuriance,  more  like  an  Indian  than  any 
civilized  man — has  become  outre  in  his  habili- 
ments— talks  an  infinite  deal  of  vulgar  county- 
politics,  and  consumes  nearly  as  much  of  those 
besotting,  potent,  and  cheap  distillations,  of  domes- 
tic origin,  as  he  formerly  did  of  those  lighter,  more 
sparkling,  and  expensive  potations  of  foreign  pro- 
curement! And  such,  in  some  degree,  seems  to 
be  the  course  of  deterioration,  often  found  among 
those  who,  from  almost  any  cause,  forsaking  their 
accustomed  sphere,  would  rather  brood  in  sickly 
retirement,  than  live  familiarly,  and  innocently,  as 
well  they  might,  in  the  genial  sunshine,  and  under 
the  occasional  clouds,  which  the  world  affords. 


NOTE    IV. THE    YOUNG    INEBRIATE. 

The  moon  shone  into  my  windows  with  a  flood 
of  silvery  light — all  nature  was  hushed  into  pro- 
found silence — no  air  disturbed  even  the  pensile 
foliage,  that  from  many   trees,  and  shrubs,  and 


56  THE    YOUNG   INEBRIATE. 

flowers,  in  rich  luxuriance,  environed  the  inn, 
situate  in  one  of  nature's  most  beautiful  valleys, 
in  the  'Old  Dominion' — a  land,  as  is  well  known, 
of  traditional  hospitality,  of  generous  feelings, 
exalted  talents,  and — of  bad  habits. 

The  little  wooden  clock  of  mine  host  had  struck 
twelve  before  I  retired  to  rest,  but  not  to  sleep. 
The  monotonous  ticking  of  my  watch,  suspended 
near  my  pillow,  alone  reminded  me  that  any  thing 
with  motion  existed  in  nature ;  all  was  in  deep  re- 
pose, save  my  own  busy  thoughts,  and  these  were 
fast  subsiding  into  those  gentle  half-slumbers  that 
must  soon  have  ended  in  sleep,  exhausted  as  I  then 
was  with  my  arduous  day's  journey.  But  a  tre- 
mendous shriek  from  the  adjoining  room,  struck  a 
momentary  horror  through  my  inmost  heart.  This 
was  instantly  followed  by  a  most  unnatural  laugh — 
then  by  horrid  imprecations — then  by  cries  of 
'murder,'  'fire,'  'landlord,  I  am  dying,  sinking  into 
hell!' — 'Oh,  I  am  lost,  water,  water,  I  am  burning 
up  !'  I  naturally  supposed  that  the  landlord  would 
have  been  instantly  there — but  he  came  not;  and, 
as  there  was  no  intermission  to  the  shocking  cries 
of  the  unhappy  being,  I  soon  appeared  at  his 
chamber  door,  but  was  much  astonished  to  find  it 
locked  on  the  outside  with  a  padlock !  The  pa- 
roxysms, growing  still  more  intense  and  long-con- 
tinued, and  finding  no  hope  of  sleep  that  night, 
already  far  advanced,  it  seemed  but  reasonable  I 
should  have  an  associate  in  my  anxious  vigils ; 
and  at  length,  I  resolved  to  seek  companionship 
with  my  maitre  d^otel,  who  had  left  on  my  mind 


THE    YOUNG    INEBRIATE.  57 

a  very  favourable  impression,  during  the  half-hour 
spent  with  him  before  retiring  to  my  chamber. 
The  moon  kindly  aided  me  through  a  few  narrow 
passages  to  his  door,  which  promptly  yielded  to 
my  tap. 

'Sir,  can  you  solve  this  mystery  for  me  ? — you 
seem  to  have  a  maniac  in  your  house — a  strange 
alliance  this,  of  hospital  and  hotel — have  you  no 
means  of  silencing  him,  so  that  I  may  yet  obtain  a 
little  sleep?     Who,  and  what  is  he  V 

'I  hoped,  for  your  sake,  as  well  as  his,'  replied 
the  landlord,  'he  would  have  been  silent  this  night; 
but  poor  youth,  he  cannot  last  many  nights  more — 
this  is  the  longest  and  severest  fit  I  have  yet  known 
him  to  have;  it  has  lasted,  with  but  few  intermis- 
sions, these  four  days,  and  as  many  nights — he  is 
a  young  gentleman  of  our  neighbourhood,  of  edu- 
cation, wealth,  and  high  family — has  not  been 
from  college  more  than  two  years — his  excellent, 
and  wretched  parents,  can  do  nothing  with  him; 
he  is  now  under  my  care;  and  all  this  comes,  sir, 
from  drink  !  His  disease  is  called  tnania  a  potu. 
As  he  slept  so  little  for  some  nights  and  days,  I 
thought  him  so  much  exhausted  before  you  came, 
that  he  would  have  sunk  to  sleep,  and  not  have 
disturbed  you  ;  so  I  judged  it  better  to  say  nothing 
to  you  about  him.' 

The  noises  still  continued — moanings  that  sick- 
ened the  heart,  shrieks  that  chilled  the  blood, 
laughter  of  no  mortal  sounds,  oaths  that  demons 
alone  could  fashion,  all  followed  in  quick  succes- 
sion, wearying  the  ears,  and  exhausting  the  feelings. 
6 


58  THE    YOUNG    INEBRIATE. 

'There  is  no  relief  for  him,'  said  mine  host,  'I 
dread  to  give  him  what  he  most  craves — hquor; 
it  is  but  fuel  to  the  fire  that  rages  within  him ; 
water  he  asks  for,  but  will  none  of  it — and  medi- 
cine can  only  be  forced  upon  him,  which  now 
seems  to  be  cruel,  as  the  doctor  says  he  cannot 
live,  and  that  all  his  remedies  have  failed.' 

'Poor  human,  or  rather  poor  beastly  nature,'  said 
I,  angrily,  following  my  remark)  a  moment  after, 
with  a  deep  sigh,  and  more  than  half-ashamed, 
too,  that  I  should  feel  angry,  and  use  such  a  word 
towards  a  fellow-being  in  such  a  state  of  hopeless- 
ness. 'Poor,  unhappy  youth,'  added  I,  'would 
that  I  could  bring  thee  one  moment  of  relief; 
may  God,  who  alone  knoweth  the  cause  of  thy 
great  infirmity,  find  for  thee  a  door  of  escape  ! 
but,  if  that  must  not  be,  have  m.ercy  on  thee 
beyond  the  grave  !' 

'Oh,  dear  sir,'  replied  the  landlord,  'I  have 
known  many  persons  far  more  wicked  than  he  ; 
for  I  may  truly  say,  he  is  very  amiable,  and  chari- 
table, and  sensible,  when  sober — nearly  all  his 
faults  proceed  from  intoxication.  He  was  to  have 
been  married  before  this  time,  to  a  lovely  young 
woman  hard-by ;  and  could  Mary  Summers  see 
him,  even  now,  she  would  break  her  heart  with 
weeping  ;  for  she  yet  tenderly  loves  him.  He  still 
wears  a  locket  of  her  hair,  suspended  by  a  black 
ribbon  round  his  neck,  which  he  would  not  part 
with  even  for  liquor ;  and  yet  it  seems  he  would 
coin  his  body  and  soul,  too,  for  a  dram,  but  not 
that  locket !' 


THE    YOUNG    INEBRIATE.  59 

Some  hours  passed  iti  these  sympathetic  collo- 
quies on  his  melancholy  condition  ;  but  wearied 
nature  made  them  more  and  more  sluggish  and 
forced,  until,  after  having  wrung  all  the  changes 
on  the  miseries  of  the  wretched  inebriate,  the  vices 
and  horrors  of  drunkenness,  the  mental  agonies  of 
his  amiable  parents,  sisters,  and  brothers,  and  the 
deep  seated  and  inexhaustible  love  of  Mary  Sum- 
mers, we  were  mutually  silent.  But  the  groans, 
and  hysterical  laughs,  and  dreadful  imprecations 
from  the  pandemonium  chamber,  no  way  dimi- 
nished ;  fortunately  for  us,  they  had  lost  much  of 
their  force  on  our  worn  out  feelings,  and  I  fell 
asleep  on  my  chair,  in  the  very  act  of  forcing  out 
a  brief  reply  to  an  equally  laconic  question  of  my 
good-natured  companion. 

I  slept  soundly — maybe  a  couple  of  hours — 
when,  from  the  hum  of  domestic  arrangements, 
the  glare  of  broad  daylight,  the  occasional  tramp- 
ing over  the  uncarpeted  floor  of  the  faithful  house- 
dog, and  the  easily  recognized  sounds  from  the 
adjustment  of  the  breakfast  furniture,  on  a  table 
set  out  at  a  short  distance  from  me — I  awoke.  At 
that  instant  the  landlord  gently  descended  the 
steps  into  the  room,  and  whispered  to  me,  'friend, 
it  is  all  over  with  the  youth ;  he  has  departed  to 
his  long  home  !' 

'Oh,  it  cannot  be,'  I  involuntarily  exclaimed — 
the  big  tear  springing  into  my  eyes,  'is  he  then 
relieved  for  ever  from  his  agony,  or,  oh  God !  is 
death  but  the  beginning  of  a  never-ending  life, — 
and,  if  so,  is  it  but  a  prolongation,  with  super- 


60  THE    YOUNG    INEBRIATE. 

added  horrors  of  this  hfe?  As  the  tree  falls,  so  it 
lies  ;  but  yet  to  spring  up  an  eternal  tree  of  the 
same  nature,  bearing  none  but  its  peculiar  fruits ; 
there  can  then,  be  no  tilling,  no  melioration,  no 
change  for  the  better,  dreadful,  overwhelming 
thought !  But,  landlord,  we  must  now  indulge  no 
farther  in  such  matters.' 

We  hastened  to  the  sad  chamber ;  and  never  did 
eye  rest  upon  a  sight  more  heart-rending,  more 
loathing.  We  beheld  a  youth  of  fine  proportions, 
and  once  of  manly  beauty,  now  an  emaciated  corpse, 
a  miserable  wreck  of  what  he  had  been,  stretched 
upon  the  floor,  with  an  empty  bottle  in  one  hand, 
and  a  fragment  of  a  chair  in  the  other,  both  held, 
apparently,  with  the  same  muscular  force  with 
which  they  had  been  seized,  perhaps  but  a  few 
moments  before  the  vital  spark  had  fled.  His  fine 
hazel  eyes  were  protruded  from  their  livid  sockets 
— his  thin  blue  hps  and  distorted  features  showed 
how  his  vexed  spirit  had  struggled  with  the  grim 
monarch — his  glossy  brown  hair  hung  in  short 
ringlets,  and  were  beautifully  contrasted  with  the 
fair  complexion  of  his  exposed  neck  and  shoulders, 
over  which  also  hung  the  hair-locket  of  Mary 
Summers !  In  hastily  casting  my  eye  over  the 
room,  I  found  that  every  thing  within  his  reach 
had  been  broken ;  and  his  bruised  and  lacerated 
body  also  showed  that  the  unhappy  youth  had 
waged  war  against  a  thousand  imaginary  ene- 
mies, among  which  were  his  own  tender  limbs. 
We  promptly  removed  him  to  another  chamber, 
and  bestowed  on  his  remains  every  attention  that 


THE    YOUNG   INEBRIATE.  61 

might,  as  far  as  possible,  remove  from  the  eye  of 
affection,  soon  to  visit  him,  the  tokens  of  his 
miserable  end.  It  was  a  sad  scene,  in  a  few 
hours  after,  to  see  his  aged  parents  kissing  his 
forehead  and  lips ;  his  lovely  sisters,  with  deep 
affection  and  involuntary  horror  blended,  embrac- 
ing his  lifeless  corpse.  Some  of  the  sad  tale  of 
the  preceding  night  had  been  related  to  them  by 
the  host,  and  I  was  urgently  invited  by  the  afflict- 
ed parents  to  their  house,  and  that  I  should  extend 
my  kindness  still  further,  by  witnessing  the  inter- 
ment. The  heart,  in  such  a  case,  needs  not  the 
ties  of  blood,  nor  yet  of  acquaintance,  to  feel  for 
the  dead,  or  warmly  to  sympathize  with  the  living  ; 
and,  in  a  short  time  after,  I  found  myself  domesti- 
cated in  the  comfortable  mansion  of  a  Virginian 
gentleman  of  the  old  school.  Here,  all  that  met 
my  eye,  at  once  told  me  that  it  had  long  been  the 
home  of  an  intelligent  and  worthy  family,  one  of 
an  extended  hospitality,  but  whose  progenitors  had 
probably  seen  brighter  and  more  prosperous  days 
than  had  shone  on  its  present  owners,  for  some 
time  past  at  least. 

I  retired  to  my  chamber,  and  slept  soundly  for 
some  hours,  till  the  dinner-bell  sounded,  and  a 
pretty  little  coloured  boy  softly  tapped  at  my  door, 
and  summoned  me  out. 

I  entered  the  dining-room  much  refreshed,  but 
with  little  appetite ;  a  death-like  silence  reigned 
there,  interrupted  only  by  those  occasional  subdued, 
but  heart-felt  kindnesses  which  sprung  from  the 
newly  kindled  affection  towards  me,  blended  with 
6* 


62  THE    YOUNG  INEBRIATE. 

the  habitual  and  noble  pohteness  which  charac- 
terizes manners  in  the  'mother  state.' 

As  we  approached  the  table,  covered  with  the 
savoury  products  of  the  surrounding  manor,  the 
old  gentleman  placed  his  hands  in  mine :  'I  fear 
my  friend,  we  must  dine  to-day  without  the  ladies, 
but  George  and  James  will  accompany  us,  and  we 
shall  do  better,  I  hope,  in  a  few  days.'  Then 
pausing  for  a  moment,  he  added,  'my  wife  and 
daughters  were  nearly  prevailed  on  to  join  us ; 
but,  poor  Mary  Summers  has  just  arrived,  and 
their  wounded  hearts  are  now  all  bleeding  afresh.' 

'It  is  better  so,'  I  gently  replied,  'their  tender 
souls  need  the  solace  of  weeping,  and  I  am  happy 
they  can  weep.' 

'Dear  Mary  does  not  weep,'  rejoined  the  afflicted 
father,  '■we  have  been,  in  some  measure,  prepared 
for  the  sad  event — not  so  with  Mary  Summers,  to 
whom  we  never  ventured  to  communicate  all  that 
took  place  with  our  afflicted  son.' 

We  dined  in  sadness ;  the  day  and  night  passed 
off,  and  the  hour  of  four  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
following  day,  was  appointed  for  the  interment. 

At  breakfast,  all  were  present,  except  the  eldest 
daughter  and  Mary  Summers.  So  much  had  been 
said  to  me  by  the  landlord,  as  also  by  the  younger 
sons,  whom  I  have  named,  in  praise  of  Mary,  that 
1  felt,  for  a  moment,  greatly  disappointed  at  her 
absence  ;  but  how  soon  were  all  my  feelings  the 
other  way,  when  selfishness  gave  room,  on  a  mo- 
ment's reflection,  to  far  better  sentiments. — 'Sweet 
sufferer!'   said  I  mentally,    'I  value   thee  greatly 


THE    YOUNG   INEBRIATl}.  63 

more  for  thy  absence;  for,  surely,  retirement  and 
silence  better  harmonize  with  thy  affliction,  than 
the  ruddy  light  of  day,  and  the  unavoidable  cour- 
tesies of  life.'  But  rousing  myself  from  this  reve- 
rie, I  inquired,  'how  is  Miss  Summers, — how  did 
she  pass  the  night?' 

Julia,  a  blue-eyed  girl  of  seventeen,  as  beautiful 
as  a  fresh  May  morning,  garnished  with  dewy 
flowers,  and  redolent  with  their  sweets,  replied  to 
my  question:  'I  fear,  sir,  she  did  not  sleep  at  all; 
she  neither  weeps,  nor  speaks,  but  only  moans 
continually.     I  think  her  heart  will  break  !' 

At  this  moment,  Eliza,  the  eldest  daughter, 
rushed  into  the  room,  and  exclaimed — 'Miss  Sum- 
mers is  very  ill — I  fear  past  hope !' 

All  were  in  her  chamber  in  an  instant,  and  I 
found  myself  also  there,  a  witness  of  the  melan- 
choly scene.  Dear  Mary  Summers  was  then  expi- 
ring, and  my  first  acquaintance  with  her  was  made 
in  performing  the  sad  office  of  closing  her  eyes 
for  ever. 

'Oh!  thou  great  and  unsearchable  Being,'  said  I 
inwardly,  'how  unfathomable  are  thy  ways?  She 
was  young,  and  beautiful,  and,  as  all  say,  full  of 
angelic  virtues, — and  yet  this  fair  and  lovely  crea- 
ture dies  a  martyr  to  love,  for  a  man  who  aban- 
doned himself,  his  God,  his  loving  parents,  his 
affectionate  and  beautiful  sisters,  the  luxuries  of 
his  home,  the  respect  of  his  friends,  and,  finally, 
even  his  betrothed — all,  all,  for  a  nauseous  sicken- 
ing, poisonous  draught !  But  what  can  conquer 
woman's  chaste  love ! — it  is  as  fathomless  as  the 


64  THE    YOUNG   INEBRIATE. 

deep,  deep  sea,  as  high  as  heaven,  as  expansive 
and  pervading  as  the  atmosphere.'  And  there 
was  poor  Mary's  hfeless  body,  a  faithful  witness 
of  the  truth  of  this  rush  of  thought,  that  for  a 
moment  occupied  me  in  this  chamber  of  death 
and  of  agonizing  grief! 

Charles'  funeral  was  of  course,  postponed  for  a 
couple  of  days  more,  to  prepare  for  the  joint  obse- 
quies of  the  youthful  lovers. 

During  this  interval,  I  occasionally  sought  relief 
in  the  library,  which  occupied  a  very  retired  part 
of  the  venerable  old  building,  the  windows  of 
which  were  shaded  by  honeysuckle  and  eglantine 
profusely  blended,  and  which,  as  I  reposed  with 
my  book  in  a  deep  armed  chair,  saluted  me  with 
their  delicious  fragrance,  and  excluded  the  garish 
day,  now  become  almost  offensive  to  me. 

I  had  not  been  long  in  the  library  before  my  eye 
rested  on  a  musty  volume  entitled  'Remains  of 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh,'  which  I  eagerly  seized,  with 
the  full  assurance  of  finding  therein  much  good 
sense — and,  strange  coincidence !  the  first  page  my 
eye  lit  on,  painted  in  living  colours  the  vice  of 
Drunkenness.  The  passages  I  allude  to,  so  har- 
monized with  my  feelings  then,  and  ever,  that  I 
copied  them  into  my  diary,  and  here  they  now  are 
for  the  benefit  of  all  who  avail  themselves  of  the 
privilege  of  looking  into  such  portions  of  my 
Note  Book  as  I  have  chosen  to  reveal ;  and  espe- 
cially for  any  one  who  hesitates  whether  he  will 
become  a  man  or  a  beast — whether  he  will  enjoy 
life's  blessings  with  wife,  children,  and  friends,  or 


THE    YOUNG   INEBRIATE.  65 

its  poisons,  through  absence  of  them  all ;  for  any- 
one, in  fine,  who  may  hesitate  whether  he  will 
murder  himself  and  his  betrothed,  or  live  in  health 
respected  by  the  world,  and  wed  the  object  of  his 
first  love.  But,  why  should  I  moralize  when  we 
have  the  eloquent  wisdom  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh ! 

'Take  especial  care,'  says  he,  'that  you  delight 
not  in  wine,  for  there  never  was  any  man  that 
came  to  honour  or  preferment  that  loved  it ;  for  it 
transformeth  a  man  into  a  beast,  decayeth  health, 
poisoneth  the  breath,  destroyeth  natural  heat, 
bringeth  a  man's  stomach  to  an  artificial  burn- 
ing, deformetli  the  face,  rotteth  the  teeth,  and,  to 
conclude,  maketh  a  man  contemptible,  soon  old, 
and  despised  of  all  wise  and  worthy  men ;  hated 
in  thy  servants,  in  thyself,  and  companions  ;  for  it 
is  a  bewitching  and  infectious  vice ;  and  remember 
my  words,  that  it  were  better  for  a  man  to  be  sub- 
ject to  any  vice,  than  to  it ;  for  all  other  vanities 
and  sins  are  recovered,  but  a  drunkard  will  never 
shake  olf  the  delight  of  beastliness  ;  for  the  longer 
it  possesseth  a  man,  the  more  he  will  delight  in  it, 
and  the  older  he  groweth,  the  more  shall  he  be  sub- 
ject to  it;  for  it  duUeth  the  spirits,  and  destroyeth 
the  body,  as  ivy  doth  the  old  tree,  or  as  the  worm 
that  engendereth  in  the  kernel  of  the  nut.' 

'Take  heed  therefore,  that  such  a  careless  canker 
pass  not  thy  youth,  nor  such  a  beastly  infection 
thy  old  age ;  for  then  shall  thy  life  be  but  as  the  life 
of  a  beast,  and  after  thy  death  thou  shall  only 
leave  a  shameful  infamy  to  thy  posterity,  who 
shall  study  to  forget  that  such  an  one  was  their 


66  THE    YOUNG    INEBRIATE. 

father.  Anacharsis  saith — the  first  draught  servcth 
for  healthy  the  second  for  pleasure^  the  third  for 
shame,  the  fourth  for  madness ;  but  in  youth  ihexQ 
is  not  so  much  as  one  draught  permitted,  for  it 
putteth  fire  to  fire,  and  wasteth  the  natural  heat. 
And  therefore,  except  thou  desire  to  hasten  thine 
end,  take  this  for  a  general  rule,  that  thou  never 
add  any  artificial  heat  to  thy  body,  by  wine  or 
spice,  until  thou  find  that  time  has  decayed  thy 
natural  heat,  and  the  sooner  thou  beginnest  to 
help  Qiature,  the  sooner  will  she  forsake  thee,  and 
thou  trust  altogether  to  art.'' 

The  day  at  length  arrived  for  the  interment  of 
Charles  and  of  Mary.  The  hair-locket  rested  on 
his  bosom ;  and  the  beautiful  Mary  Summers  was 
placed  in  her  tomb,  with  every  memento  that 
Charles  had  given  to  her  of  his  affection. 

It  was  on  a  lovely  November  afternoon,  in  the 
year  18 — ,  that  a  long  procession  of  weeping  rela- 
tions of  both  the  families,  with  their  numerous 
friends  and  acquaintances  from  a  populous  neigh- 
bourhood, together  with  an  equally  long  train  of 
faithful  slaves,  who  loved  their  young  master  and 
mistress,  might  have  been  seen  slowly  walking 
towards  the  family  grave  yard. 

It  was  situate  in  a  deep  shaded  dell,  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  mansion.  The  rude  but 
substantial  fence  that  encompassed  it,  was  entirely 
covered  with  vines  and  creepers  of  various  sorts, 
and  in  each  corner  of  the  square  was  planted  an 
evergreen,  that  seemed  to  have  been  there  very 
many  years.      Though  this  sacred  spot  was  the 


THE    YOUNG    INEBRIATE.  67 

receptacle  of  many  graves,  it  contained  but  few 
tombstones,  which  were  to  be  seen,  here  and  there, 
raising  their  white  tops  above  the  luxuriant  grass 
and  wild  flowers,  distinguishing  the  more  promi- 
nent members  of  an  ancient  family,  and  of  its 
numerous  alliances,  who,  in  the  course  of  nearly 
two  centuries  had  been  there  deposited. 

As  we  entered  the  ample  gate,  the  sublime  and 
well  known  words,  '/  am  the  resurrectio7i  a7id  the 
life,  saith  the  Lord;  he  that  bclieveth  in  we,  though 
he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live :  and  loJioever  liveth 
and  believeth  in  me,  shall  never  die;'' — were  uttered 
in  heavenly  tones  by  a  very  aged  pastor,  whose 
snowy  locks  seemed  to  admonish  us  that  tempe- 
rance and  serenity  of  mind  are  good  securities  for 
ripe  old  age — and  that  intemperance  in  man,  and 
excessive  feeling  in  woman,  had  brought  the 
deceased  to  untimous  graves.  A  short,  but  tender 
and  appropriate  discourse  was  delivered  by  the 
venerable  old  man,  which  bathed  all  eyes  in  tears, 
and  among  tlie  rest,  those  of  Jack  Hodgson,  a 
middle  aged  man,  clothed  in  rags,  and  who,  T 
observed,  had  approached  unusually  close  to  the 
graves,  and  held  before  his  eyes  the  miserable 
fragments  of  what  had  once  been  a  hat,  removing 
them  occasionally,  and  looking  into  the  graves, 
evidently  witii  no  idle  curiosity,  but  with  a  most 
intense  interest  !  I  afterwards  learned  that  Hodg- 
son was  notorious  in  the  neighbourhood  for  rare 
scholarship,  wit,  obscenity^  oaths,  and  drunken- 
ness; and  had,  occasionally  claimed  fellowship 
with  Charles  on  the  score  of  some  distant  rela- 


68  THE    YOUNG   INEBRIATE. 

tionship;  but  mainly,  of  late,  from  the  community 
of  their  tastes  and  pursuits.  Charles'  terrible 
death  had  made  much  impression  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  had  so  softened  the  heart  even  of 
Jack  Hodgson,  that  he  presented  himself  sober 
that  afternoon,  and  with  a  decency  so  unusual  for 
him,  gazed  on  the  scene  that  closed  for  ever  from 
his  sight,  a  manifest  victim  to  a  habit  that  had 
brought  Hodgson  to  his  then  degraded  state. 

As  Hodgson,  in  profound  thought,  retired  from 
the  grave,  and  was  slowly  following  at  the  heel 
of  the  main  procession,  and  near  the  head  of  the 
coloured  people,  a  very  aged  negro,  whose  short 
and  crisped  hair  had  become  almost  snowy  white, 
approached  Jack,  whose  long,  gray  hair  was  hang- 
ing profusely  over  his  shoulders. 

'Ah,  massa  Jack  !'  said  the  venerable  negro,  'you 
be  almost  a  boy  along  side  o'  me ;  but  your  hair 
be  jist  as  white  as  mine!  Wad's  the  reason, 
massa  Jack,  o'  that?  Shall  poor  nigger  tell  you, 
massa? — nigger  drink  water  all  his  libe,  work 
hard  ebbery  day,  go  to  bed  arly,  get  up  arly  ;  but 
massa  Jack  Hodgson  drink  nothing  but  poison 
water — nebber  work  at  all  any  day — frolic  all  de 
blessed  night — and  I  tell  you,  massa  Jack,  you  be 
no  long  for  dis  world.  I  tell  you,  you  die  in  a 
few  monds!'  With  this  the  old  man,  dropping 
Hodgson's  hand,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight. 


A  few  years  have  passed  since  the  events  I 
have  thus  noted.  A  neat  tomb  now  jointly  records 
the  loves,  and  the  nearly  synchronous  deaths  of 


THE    YOUNG    INEBRIATE.  69 

Charles  and  of  Mary.  Poor  Jack  Hodgson,  who 
only  lived  the  year  out,  lies  buried  in  an  obscure 
corner  of  the  same  grave  yard,  but  with  no  slab  to 
record  his  name,  and  with  scarcely  a  mound  to 
distinguish  the  spot  desecrated  by  his  ashes,  from 
the  virgin  soil  that  surrounds  it.  Old  Dembo, 
however,  still  lives  to  point  it  out,  and  from  pre- 
sent appearances,  will  continue  so  to  do  for  a  long 
time  to  come.  Since  his  warning  voice  to  Hodg- 
son was  so  accurately  verified  by  his  speedy  death, 
Dembo  regards  himself  as  no  little  of  a  prophet; 
and  it  is  fortunate,  also,  for  some  of  the  youths  of 
the  surrounding  country,  that  they  esteem  him 
somewhat  in  the  same  light ;  for  when  religion, 
morals,  and  education  have  been  found  to  yield  to 
the  fascinations  of  the  Circean  bowl,  the  super- 
stitious threatenings  from  the  lips  of  the  hoary- 
headed  negro  have  proved  of  more  avail. 


T 


CHAPTER  II. 

V.   THE  SCHOOLMEN. — VI.    E    PLURIBUS  TTNUM. — VII.    THE    PHILO- 
SOPHICAL   EATER. — VIII.    A    CURIOUS    PROPOSITION. 

NOTE    V. THE    SCHOOLMEN. 

'You  must  really  promise  me  to  read  the  works 
of  Si.  Thomas  Aquinas^''  said  an  eminent  Jesuit  at 
Rome,  as  he  was  exhibiting  to  me,  with  infinite 
bonhomie^  the  extensive  and  beautiful  estabUsh- 
ment  over  which  he  presided,  and  specially  calling 
my  attention  to  the  curiosa  of  his  well  arranged 
library.  'Worthy  father,'  replied  I,  'you  do  me  too 
much  honour  to  bring  to  my  poor  notice  the  elabo- 
rate works  of  so  distinguished  a  saint;  for,  if  I 
mistake  not,  his  learning  is  said  to  have  been  as 
immense,  as  his  piety  was  exemplary.  Was  he 
not  called  the  angel  of  the  schools — the  fifth  doctor 
of  the  church,  and  was  not  his  tomb,  after  his 
canonization,  the  scene  of  many  miracles?'  'True, 
my  dear  friend,'  answered  the  pious  follower  of  St. 
Ignatius,  'these  titles  were  most  worthily  bestowed 
upon  St.  Aquinas,  whose  writings  are  as  eloquent 
as  they  are  rich  in  wisdom,  and  in  the  soundest 
logic  of  the  schools.  He,  of  all  others,  best  under- 
stood that  prince  of  philosophers,  Aristotle ;  and 
hence  he  has  ever  been  the  admiration  of  popes, 


THE    SCHOOLMEN.  71 

and  of  sovereigns :  but  I  must  not  fail  to  mention 
that  his  works  are  a  special  favourite  with  one  of 
your  own  most  eminent  scholars  and  illustrious 
statesmen — the  Ex-President  A, — who,  as  I  have 
heard,  owes  much  of  the  discipline  of  his  high 
reasoning  powers,  to  the  writings  of  this  saint.' 

The  profound  sincerity  of  the  good  father,  I  was 
in  no  ways  disposed  to  doubt ;  but  I  had  some 
previous  acquaintance  with  the  class  of  writers  to 
which  the  idolized  saint  belongs ;  and  the  old 
saying,  noscitur  a  sociis,  too  promptly  occurred  to 
my  mind,  to  permit  the  padre's  eulogy  to  affect 
me  much. 

In  looking  around,  moreover,  I  found  nothing 
to  remind  me  of  that  blessed  '■march  of  the  mind^ 
so  essential  to  the  very  life-current  of  American 
thought.  All  that  met  the  eye  were  relics  of  by- 
gone times — no  representative  of  the  age  we  live 
in  was  there  to  be  found — every  thing  wore  the 
monastic  complexion  of  many  past  centuries,  that 
had  been  dyed  in  the  gloomiest  superstitions,  and 
marked  by  the  cruelest  persecutions  for  opinion's 
sake.  These  associations  rushed  into  my  mind  ; 
and,  as  we  passed  through  the  numerous  and  am- 
ple apartments  and  corridors,  my  soul  involuntarily 
dwelt  upon  the  intensely  interesting,  but  sickening 
events,  which  these  walls  must  have  witnessed, 
when  the  disciples  of  the  military  saint  ruled  the 
destinies  of  the  civilized  world;  and  when  the 
degraded  and  fettered  mind  dared  not  to  wander 
beyond  a  narrow  and  incomprehensible  creed — a 
jargon  of  mystical  and    metaphysical  religion,  in 


72  THE    SCHOOLMEN. 

which  it  seemed  as  if  the  rivulets  of  Christianity 
flowed  sluggishly  and  fearfully,  into  an  ocean  of 
Aristotelian  and  Platonic  refinements  ! 

But  the  good  father,  as  we  parted,  warmly  shook 
my  hand,  and  repeated  his  injunction  respecting 
his  favourite  author :  whilst  I,  with  that  fleeting 
and  extorted  sincerity,  which  too  often  yields  to 
politeness,  an  assentation  of  the  lips,  promised  him 
C071  7tiolti  ringraziamenti,  to  be  a  willing,  and,  I 
trusted,  an  apt  scholar  of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas! 
And  so  I  passed  the  threshold,  with  a  made  up 
mind  to  procure  some  of  his  works,  and  with  more 
than  half  a  mind  to  study  them. 

Alas  !  how  true  is  it  that  caelum  et  animwn 
ynutant  qui  trans  mare  currunt ;  for,  1  soon  found 
that  the  'angelic  doctor,'  in  his  seventeen  folio 
volumes,*  had  quite  too  much  subtle  logic,  and 
recondite  philosophy  and  metaphysics,  for  me  to 
redeem  my  promise;  and  I  have  since  been  not 
loath  to  remember,  withal,  that  although  made  to 
as  honest  a  man  as  breathes,  he  was  still  a  Jesuit; 
and  that  it  had  been  made  with  some,  perhaps 
infectious,  mental  reservations  at  the  time,  that 
may  save  me  from  a  mortal  sin,  should  I  content 
myself  with  but  an  occasional  turning  over  these 
musty  pages. 

Bui  still,  may  it  not  be  true,  nay,  is  it  not  so, 
that  the  'Summa  Theologia,^  at  least,  of  this  'Eagle 
of  Divines' — this  canonized  doctor,  is  replete  with 
the  deepest  thought,  and  with  much  that  is  quite 

*  Vide  T.  Aquinatis  Opera  omnia,  17  vols.  fol.  Romae,  1570 — 
aut  a  Nicoiai,  Paris,  1660,  19  vols,  fol. 


THE   SCHOOLMEN. 


73 


worthy  the  attention  of  our  scholars  and  tlieolo- 
gians?  It  is  admitted  to  be  the  best  among  his 
numerous  works  ;  and  it  is  probable  that  were  the 
entire  class  to  which  it  belongs,  possessed  of  only 
the  tithe  of  its  merits,  the  name  of  Aristotle,  and 
of  the  schoolmen,  might  have  shone,  even  to  this 
day,  with  a  bright  and  steady  light. 

The  schoolmen,  however,  not  only  over-leaped 
the  boundaries  assigned  to  the  researches  of  rea- 
son, and    thus  involved  themselves  in  many  idle 
controversies,  and  incomprehensible  enigmas,  but 
they  also  sullied  the  illustrious  name  of  their  mas- 
ter, and  became  themselves  the  very  incarnation  of 
absurdity.     Their  mysteries,  constantly  'chyming 
into  quibbles,'  and  clothed  in  the  crudest  fustian, 
tended  as  much  to  establish  the  worst  models  of 
composition,  as  they  undoubtedly  often  did,  to  cor- 
rupt the  purest  sources  of  Christianity,  and  of  legi- 
timate reasoning.     Fortunately,  the  spell  which  so 
long  bound  the  human  mind  to  the  mere  autho- 
rity of  names,  has  been  entirely  dissolved  among 
classes,  at  least :   men  no  longer  think  by  proxy 
only — even  the  pope  and  his  church  are  not  infal- 
lible— and  Aquinas,  Banner/,  Escobar,  and  Pontius, 
with  the  whole  fraternity  of  pseudo- Aristotelians, 
remain  as  little  known,  and  less  appreciated,  than 
almost  any  one  of  the  many  thousand  writers  that 
are  annually  ushered  into  notice,  by  the  pjeculiar 
facilities  of  our  age  ! 

Were  Aristotle,  though  no  longer  *a  sort  of 
divinity,'  to  rise  from  his  grave,  how  delighted 
would  he  now  be,   to  find  himself  relieved  from 


7* 


74  THE    SCHOOLMEN. 

the  host  of  ohnubilators  who  darkened  his  brilliant 
pages,  by  attempting  to  unravel  mysteries,  and 
hidden  meanings  in  thera,  never  dreamt  of  in  his 
philosophy,  but  which  are  alone  to  be  found  in 
the  phrenzied  imaginings  of  his  numerous  mis- 
guided commentators.  Surely  Aristotle,  and  the 
'divine  Plato,'  would  scarce  have  recognized  their 
own  works  among  the  scolia  of  Avverhoes,  of 
Boetius,  of  Albert,  of  Bonaventura,  or  even  of 
that  sage  'doctor  irrefragabilis' —  Alexander  of 
Hales,  and  still  less  of  his  friend  Duns  Scotus, 
of  famous  memory  !  And,  as  I  opine,  it  would 
not  fare  much  better  with  my  Roman  friend's 
great  favourite,  Aquinas ;  for  the  character  of  our 
day  is  so  eminently  practical^  that  the  small  re- 
mains of  the  logical  and  metaphysical  theology 
of  the  schoolmen  are  now,  either  equally  'in  hands 
utiholy,'  or  are  consigned  to  the  'idle  winds,'  as 
dreamy  and  useless  knowledge. 

It  is  to  be  feared,  however,  that  the  Utilita- 
rians, now  on  the  ascendant,  may  not  rest  content 
with  branding  as  the  prince  of  learned  blockheads, 
the  once  far  famed  Duns  Scotus,  and  that  the 
ultraism  of  our  times  will  be  more  than  a  njatch 
for  the  whole  learned  fraternity  of  schoolmen,  and 
all  that  emanated  even  from  the  long  renowned 
Sarbonne  !  I  doubt  not  that  the  Utilitarians  of 
Europe,  nay,  that  some  of  the  university  scholars 
of  our  own  country,  even  when  first  emerging, 
with  academic  honours,  into  life,  would  on  any 
day  of  the  week,  send  forth  an  ^admirable.  Crich-. 
ton^'' — some  '■doctor  resolutissiniuSy    to  contend  for 


THE    SCHOOLMEN.  75 

the  mastery  with  any  of  the  schoolmen  that  may 
now  remain  !  Not,  indeed,  with  weapons  like  unto 
theirs,  but  with  what  they  would  call  the  steam 
power  of  commofi  sense  ! 

I  worshipfully  bow  to  the  majesty  and  com- 
manding power  of  common  sense,  and  wish  that 
all  men  were  mainly  guided  by  it ;  but,  as  before 
?aid,  I  fear  no  little  mischief  from  the  ultraism  of 
their  devotion  to  this  too  often  most  impudent 
utilitarian  goddess  ;  who,  though  frequently  attired 
in  the  habiliments  of  modesty  itself,  is  generally 
a  radical  and  daring  leveller,  and  a  meddler  in 
things  she  little  understands  ! 

We  know  that  learning,  without  judgment,  cha- 
racterized the  schoolmen  ;  and  we  apprehend  that 
common  sense,  without  learning,  will  very  soon 
characterize  the  utilitarians and  both  are  ex- 
tremes, equally  to  be  avoided.  The  torch  which, 
like  that  of  Omar,  would  consign  all  the  learning, 
even  of  the  schoolmen,  to  uncompromising  destruc- 
tion, under  the  hope  that  common  sense,  even  in 
morals,  would  alone  prove  sufficient,  could  scarce 
fail   soon   to   bring  us  back  to  vandal  ignorance. 

The  follies,  and  even  criminal  waste  of  learning, 
which  mark  the  course  of  scholastic  philosophy, 
should  nevertheless,  be  distinguished  from  the 
mines  of  pure  ore  that  unquestionably  are  to  be 
found  in  the  writings  of  the  middle,  and  after  cen- 
turies; and  whilst  we  shake  off  the  trammels  of 
idle  knowledge,  and  the  influences  of  mere  autho- 
rity^ which,  as  Boyle  justly  observes,  'is  a  long 
bow,   the  effect  of  which   should  depend  on  the 


/\ 


76  THE    SCHOOLMEN. 

Strength  of  the  arm  which  draws  it,'  we  should 
not  fail  to  remember,  with  him,  the  excellencies  of 
sound  learnijig,  and  that  the  'cross-bow  of  reason 
has  equal  efficiency  in  the  hands  of  the  dwarf,  and 
of  the  giant,' — but  only  when  that  reason  is  itself 
genuine,  and  without  the  least  alloy  of  vanity  and 
ultraism. 

Utilitarianism,  therefore,  without  due  learning, 
is  itself  the  grossest  vanity  and  presumption ;  for 
it  is  equally  true,  tliat  if  research  may  be  pushed 
too  far,  if  learning  may  become  too  esoteric,  so  it 
may  become  degraded  and  impotent,  by  that  over- 
strained and  affected  simplicity,  and  by  that  super- 
ficial plainness  which  aim  at  bringing  it  down  to 
the  level  of  the  meanest  capacity. 

In  seeking  after  practicalness,  we  may  easily 
lose  the  substance,  and  scarce  attain  the  shadow  of 
knowledge ;  and  this,  as  it  seems  to  me,  is  becom- 
ing gradually,  a  too  visible  feature  in  the  researches 
of  our  utilitarians  ;  for  though  our  age  be  eminent 
for  useful  knowledge,  mainly  derived  from  the 
exoteric  spirit  of  the  times,  there  is  still  room  to 
apprehend  that  this,  in  turn,  is  becoming  exces- 
sive ;  and  that  the  next  generation,  if  not  the 
present,  will  not  rest  content  until  the  whole  circle 
of  knowledge  may  be  compressed  in  a  library  of  a 
few  hundred  octavo  volumes  !  The  Germans,  no 
doubt,  will  hold  out  the  longest — but,  as  the  fash- 
ion now  leans  so  strongly  towards  condensations, 
double  distillations,  democratic  sirnpli/ications,  prac- 
tical expositions,  tables  of  knoirledge,  outlines,  dia- 
grams,  digests,   abridgments,  syllabusses,   essays. 


THE    SCHOOLMEN.  77 

coup  cT ceils ^  journals^  and  revieus,  with  a  thousand 
other  short-roads,  by-cuts,  and  smooth-paths,  all  of 
of  them  aided,  moreover,  by  cylinder  and  steam 
presses,  by  rough  types,  coarse  paper  and  wood 
cuts — we  fear  that,  whilst  our  so  called  learning 
becomes  dog-  cheap,  we  shall  find  a  proportionate 
diminution  of  true  and  'ripe  scholars ;'  and  that 
such  of  our  young  misses  as  graduate,  and  can 
construe  their  Novum  Testamentum,  and  talk 
flippantly  out  of  Mrs.  Marcet's  'Conversations  on 

Chemistry' on   'Natural   Philosophy' and   on 

'Political  Economy' — will  shrink  from  the  more 
elaborate  works  of  Mrs.  Somerville,  and  of  Adam 
Smith  !  And  it  may  be  equally  feared,  that  our 
young  men  may  ultimately  be  brought  to  know 
little  more  of  the  classics,  than  what  are  to  be 
found  in  the  ^Grceca  Majorat  and  in  the  Latin, 
^Excerpta'' — or  more  of  Plato,  of  Aristotle,  of  Des- 
cartes, &c.  than  what  may  be  gleaned  from  Watts' 
Logic,  or  from  some  of  the  chapters  of  Locke ; 
and,  perhaps,  little  more  of  physics,  tfcc.  than 
are  condensely  displayed  in  Jamieson's  'Universal 
Science,'  or  in  that  marvellous  book,  'Sir  Richard 
Phillips'  Million  of  Facts,'  each  in  one  small 
volume! 

In  the  approaching  sunny  days,  that  I  antici- 
pate, days  of  almost  universal  and  co  equal  know- 
ledge, we  may  find  our  statesmen  and  politicians 
looking  down,  with  felicitous  contempt,  on  the  folly 
of  past  times,  and  of  German  lore,  and  of  German 
drudges  !  And,  should  there  then  be  a  few  that 
still  hang  on  the  skirts  of  a  Grotius,  a  Pulfendorf, 


78  THE    SCHOOLMEN. 

a  Domat,  or  a  Coke,  they  will  be  regarded  as  so 
inveterately  book-mad,  as  to  be  more  worthy  in- 
mates of  some  hotel  des  invalides,  than  of  a  uni- 
versity ;  and  as  to  the  theologians,  so  far  from  their 
seeking  occasionally  for  light,  among  even  the 
best  of  the  schoolmen,  or  even  from  the  fathers 
of  the  church,  they  will  have  their  essentials  in 
translated  excerpts — or  possibly,  in  those  labour- 
saving  machines,  the  'Penny  Encyclopedias,'  the 
'Saturday  Magazines,'  and  similar  works  ! 

How  strange  is  it  that  the  world  cannot  avoid 
extremes  !  and  passing  strange,  that  the  republic  of 
letters  must  degenerate  into  a  vile  democracy,  and, 
possibly,  into  a  still  more  ignoble  mobocracy  of 
letters  !  How  admirable  is  the  juste  milieu  in  every 
thing  !  Extremes,  though  in  very  opposite  direc- 
tions, seem  ever  pregnant  with  like  results.  The 
learned  jargon  of  the  schoolmen  withdrew  from  the 
cognizance  of  the  vulgar  many,  the  wholesome 
truths  of  knowledge — poisoned  its  fountains — and 
degraded  it  with  many  silly  refinements,  clothed 
in  a  most  barbarous  language  ;  all  of  which,  even 
among  the  elite  and  studious,  greatly  retarded  the 
progress  of  genuine  philosophy,  and  of  sound 
morals.  And  so  it  may  easily  fall  out  with  the 
utilitarians  of  our  day,  would  they  vainly  attempt 
to  reduce  all  knowledge  to  such  primary  elements 
that,  by  a  species  of  moral  homa?pathic  reduction 
and  administration  of  the  most  recondite  sciences 
and  arts,  all  men  are  to  become  scholars,  states- 
men, philosophers,  and  what  not ! — and  this,  too, 
by  receiving  infinitesimal  portions  of  knowledge, 


THE    SCHOOLMEN.  79 

(possibly  even  by  sfnelling  at  them,)  somewhat 
after  the  fashion  of  those  charlatans,  who  would 
cure  all  diseases  by  a  materia  medica,  so  reduced 
to  its  ultimate  elements,  as  to  come  within  the 
cubic  volume  of  a  few  inches,  and  through  invisi- 
ble portions  taken  into  the  system  even  by  the 
olfactories  !  I  confess  myself  a  sceptic  in  all  such 
extremes  ;  and  am  as  little  inclined  towards  this 
hoped-for  ubiquity,  and  co-equality  of  knowledge, 
as  I  should  be  to  the  restoration  of  those  palmy 
days  of  the  schoolmen,  when  a  few  exclusives  were 
so  idolized  by  the  mass,  as  to  think  themselves 
allied  aut  Dcum  aut  Diaholum  ! 

It  was  this  adulation  of  the  supposed  learning 
of  the  times,  that  rendered  the  schoolmen  so  very 
mystical.  The  classical  purity  of  the  Greek  and 
Roman  writers,  ill-suited  the  rough  materials  which 
often  composed  their  works;  their  authority  was 
mainly  derived  from  not  being  understood — and 
also  from  the  necessary  aristocracy  of  learning, 
when  books  were  rare,  and  war  was  the  vocation 
of  the  many. 

Ignorance  and  superstition  are  natural  allies; 
so  that  the  scholars  of  those  days,  exercised  a  pro- 
digious influence  over  all  men  and  things  around 
them ;  for  we  find  that  Aquinas,  Albertus  Magnus, 
Hales,  Bonaventura,  and  others,  were  regarded 
with  such  an  eye  of  respect,  and  even  of  awe, 
as  can  scarce  be  comprehended,  at  the  present 
time.  Pelligrino  Antonio  Orlandi,  in  his  Notizic 
degli  Scrittori  Bollognesi,  says  of  Achellini,  one 
of  these  popular  scholastics,  'Fu  accutissimo  argu- 


80  THE    SCHOOLMEN. 

mentore,  onde  ne  circoli  dove  argumenlava  e  non 
era  conosciuto,  passo  in  proverbio,  qu'll  aut  Dia- 
boliLs,  aut  Achellinus.'^ 

The  whole  fraternity  of  these  Quodlibetaria7is, 
(so  called  from  the  quodlibetical  propositions  of  St. 
Thomas  Aquinas,)  plunged  the  human  mind  into 
such  a  state  of  learned  ignorance,  that  the  Alche- 
mists and,  even  the  Astrologers,  found  it  no  difficult 
task  to  palm  their  nonsense  on  the  world,  for  seve- 
ral centuries  ;  and,  even  when  the  schoolmen  in 
a  great  degree  had  passed  off,  and  when  classical 
learning  had  revived,  and  pure  letters  and  sound 
philosophy  had  gained  some  ascendency,  these 
students  of  the  metals,  and  of  the  starry  influences, 
were  found  lingering  on,  almost  down  to  our  own 
day,  leaving  a  mental  diathesis  very  favourable 
to  the  reception  of  animal  magnetism,  and  other 
similar  opprobria  of  learning  ! — all  of  which,  it 
must  be  admitted,  flow  from  the  absence  of  a 
general  and  popular,  though  superjicial,  enlighten- 
ment. 

The  true  doctrine,  then,  of  the  whole  matter 
would  seem  to  be  this — learning,  when  confined 
to  a  very  few,  degenerates  into  mysticism,  into 
charlatanry,  and  into  oppression  of  the  people; 
the  effects  of  which  are  farther  inflamed  by  the 
people's  superstitions  :  learning,  on  the  other  hand, 
when  attempted  to  be  extended  equally  to  all, 
degenerates  into  a  contemptible  superficialness, 
full  of  vanity  and  presumption  in  the  many,  and 
of  hostility,  on  their  part,  against  the  few,  who, 


THE    SCHOOLMEN.  81 

in  spite  of  the  times,  become  really  learned.  The 
true  medium,  then,  is  to  aim  at  nothing  ultra — at 
no  universal  philosophising  of  the  mass ;  but  so  to 
enlighten  them,  as  to  protect  them  from  the  ar- 
tifices of  unprincipled  scholars;  whilst,  in  turn, 
the  mass  shall  recognize  the  rights  and  legiti- 
mate powers  of  the  learned ;  so  that  neither  may- 
encroach,  or  be  inclined  so  to  do,  on  the  pro- 
vince of  the   other. 

Sad,  indeed,  is  the  state  of  things,  when  the 
people  are  so  ignorant  that  their  scholars  shall  dare 
to  leach  them,  for  example,  that  all  the  mysteries 
of  the  Holy  Trinity,  and  of  the  Incarnation,  are 
to  be  found  in  the  pages  of  Aristotle! — that  the 
soul  is  certainly  a  musical  pipe!  these,  and  the 
like,  being  found  in  some  of  the  scholia  on  Aris- 
totle! But,  unfortunately  for  the  argument  in 
relation  to  the  soul,  it  was  founded  on  a  typo, 
graphical  error  in  the  text,  that  had  escaped  the 
overlearned  scholiast,  in  which  avXoy,  a  flute,  was 
used  instead  of  the  adjective  auXoy,  immaierial! 
A  like  pedantry  and  wasteful  display  of  curious 
knowledge,  but  in  far  more  recent  times,  is  seen 
in  the  too-learned  German,  who  published  a  very 
elaborate  essay  to  account,  on  physical  principles, 
for  a  golden  tooth,  fabled  to  have  made  its  appear- 
ance in  the  maxilary  of  a  peasant  boy !  which 
proved,  however,  to  be  a  hoax,  only  after  the 
luckless  author's  labours  of  the  pen  had  issued 
from  the  press!  And  I  may  also  allude  to  the 
thrice  too-learned  archeologists,  who  recently  gave 
to  the  world  their  essays  to  prove  that  certain 
8 


82  THE    SCHOOLMEN. 

terra  cotta  urns,  discovered  in  tlie  vicinity  of  cas- 
tle Gandolfo,  in  Italy,  were  certainly  antediluvian! 
But,  maugre  many  very  ingenious  arguments,  they 
proved  to  be  most  certainly  Gothic ! — precisely  simi- 
lar urns  having  been  found  in  Germany,  Prussia, 
and  Sweden,  under  circumstances  that  banished 
all  doubt,  and  also  without  reposing  under  strata 
of  tvfo  stone — that  being  the  fact  mainly  relied  on 
by  the  antediluvians ;  but  which  fact,  was  proba- 
bly also  a  hoax ! 

It  would  seem,  then,  that  aristocracy  and  demo- 
cracy, in  all  matters  of  science  and  of  learning, 
are  equally  evils.  Learning,  when  plebeian  or 
mobocratic,  becomes  as  fatal  to  solid  and  enduring 
attainments,  as  when  it  is  in  the  hands  of  only  a 
ie-^,  in  an  age  of  surrounding  darkness  :  for,  if  the 
useful  and  healthy  plants  of  knowledge  dwindle 
and  die,  amidst  the  noxious  weeds  that  spring 
up  from  an  over-refined  cultivation,  by  the  few, 
we  have  some  cause  to  fear  a  like  result,  from 
so  delicately  and  thinly  turning  up  the  soil,  by 
the  many,  that  neither  the  genial  rays  of  the  sun, 
nor  the  fructifying  waters  of  the  heavens,  can 
exert  their  wonted  influences.  The  whole  error 
would  seem  to  lie  in,  and  the  mischief  to  flow 
from,  not  properly  distinguishing  between  that 
cheap,  simple,  and  appropriate  knowledge,  which, 
when  destined  for  youth,  and  for  the  people  at 
large,  must  prove  so  useful — and  that  more  ex- 
pensive and  recondite  learning,  in  which  it  be- 
hooves scholars,  and  all  having  authority,  to  be 
deeply  versed. 


E    PLURIBUS    UNUM.  83 

To  mistake  the  former  for  the  latter,  or  to  sup- 
pose that  a  superficial  enUghtenment  of  the  whole 
mass,  will  coaipensale  for  the  absence  of  a  tho- 
roughly cultivated  few;  or,  finally,  to  hope  for 
wise  laws,  virtuously  administered  in  any  nation, 
where  the  people  at  large,  (though  seeking  after 
moderate  attainments  for  themselves)  are  still 
jealous  of  the  more  elevated  acquirements  in 
others,  and  would  willingly  reduce  all  to  the 
same  moderate  level,  is  to  impugn  the  irreversible 
laws  of  nature,  and  to  go  counter  to  the  past 
experience  of  all  ages,  and  of  all  nations. 

Suffer  me,  then  in  conclusion,  once  more  to 
repeat  that  in  letters,  no  more  than  in  politics, 
should  republicanism  be  confounded  with  radical- 
ism :  in  both  they  are  essentially  different  things, 
leading  to  the  widest  possible  results,  and  are 
equally  fatal  to  their  respective  aims.  Happy  the 
nation,  in  which  the  people  are  so  far  enlightened, 
as  to  respect  and  love  their  scholars  I — prosperous 
and  useful  are  these  scholars,  when  they  carefully 
avoid  ultraism,  be  it  that  of  the  schoolmen  of 
former  days,  or  that  of  the  utilitarians  of  the 
present ! 


NOTE    VI. — E    PLURIBUS    UNUM. 

1  KNOW  not  how  it  is,  but  this  little  aphorism 
has  very  often  forced  itself  upon  my  attention,  and 
has  ever  seemed  to  me,  though  few  in  letters  and 
in  words,  so  full  of  import  as  to  be,  in  itself,  almost 
a  little  volume  !     1  never  think  of  it  without  expe- 


84  E    PLURIBUS    UNUM. 

riencing  a  rush  of  ideas,  which  fills  my  mind  with 
many  historical,  moral,  and  patriotic  reminiscences 
and  feelings.  These  flow  from  it,"  not  only  as 
being  our  national  motto,  but  also  as  from  a  foun- 
tain abundant  in  the  lessons  of  wisdom,  all  of 
which  are  so  easily  inculcated,  and  so  united  and 
enforced  by  it,  as  to  illustrate  its  beauty  and  truth; 
whilst,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  rendered  as  it  were, 
visible  by  the  apposite  symbol  which  accompanies 
it,  of  a  firm  and  solid  fasciculus,  made  by  the  union 
of  many  slender  and  fragile  reeds !  The  whole 
class,  indeed,  of  aphorisms,  of  apothegms,  and  of 
fables,  I  have  ever  found  to  be  a  perennial  source 
of  intellectual  and  of  moral  gratification — they 
seem  to  demand  immediate  access,  no  less  to  the 
heart,  than  to  the  head,  and  give  to  wisdom  its 
brightest  and  most  enduring  charms. 

JEsop,  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  this,  and 
many  others,  was  truly  a  philosopher,  as  well  as 
Solomon  and  Bacon ;  but  his  is  the  peculiar  merit 
of  being  the  sole  architect  of  his  good  fortune,  and 
enduring  fame;  for  unlike  them,  and  some  other 
philosophers,  he  was  neither  a  monarch,  a  states- 
man, nor  a  scholar;  but  an  oppressed,  deformed, 
poor,  and  sooty  slave,  born  of  obscure  parents,  in 
an  almost  unknown  town,  and  deemed,  at  one 
time,  so  utterless  worthless  as  to  be  sold  for  three 
half  pence — his  new  master  jocosely  remarking, 
that  ^for  nothing  he  had  bought  7ioihingl'' 

And  yet,  how  truly  did  this  outward  apology  for 
a  man  distinguish,  when  he  mildly  rejoined  to  this 
rude   sarcasm,  'a  philosopher  should  examine  the 


E    PLURIBUS    UNUM.  85 

miJid  as  well  as  tlie  body,''  for  ^sop  felt  the  immor- 
tality that  was  within  him;  and  in  this  he  judged 
rightly,  as  he  shortly  after  became  superior  to  his 
master,  though  a  philosopher, — was   regarded   by 
the  Samians  as   an  oracle — became  the  deliverer 
of  his   adopted   country — was  borne   in   triumph 
and  crowned   with    garlands !     He   disputed   suc- 
cessfully with  the  sagest  of  the  wise  men  of  his 
own   and  of  foreign   lands — was   courted  as   the 
favourite  of  kings,  and  by  kings;  and,  at  length, 
becoming  too  famous  even  for  the  oracular  Del- 
phians,  he  perished  a  distinguished  martyr  of  their 
jealousy ! 

But  the  commanding  wisdom  of  Nature's  philo- 
sopher, caused  the  sages  of  Greece  deeply  to  mourn 
his  loss,  and  they  erected  to  the  memory  of  him, 
who  once  had  been  a  poor  and  loathsome  slave,  a 
splendid  monument,  and   continued  to  revere  his 
name,  and  to  follow  his  counsels,  for  many  ages 
after.     Such,  then,  was  the  signal  triumph  of  the 
bright  manifestations  of  mind,  over  the  crude  and 
forbidding  aspect  of  matter.     Now  whence  arose  a 
fame  so  pervading,  so  imperishable — what  raised 
so  bright  a  halo  around  a  form  so  odious — what 
transplanted  one,  whom  the  very  dogs  did  bark  at, 
into  the  courdy  seats  of  princes? — nothing  but  his 
great  aphoristic  wisdom,  the  riches  of  his  discourse, 
the  graphic   excellence  of  his  apologues,  so  well 
adapted  to  teach  moral  and  political  truths  in  the 
most  impressive  manner : — and  such  is  usually  the 
train  of  my  thoughts,  whenever  the  author  of  our 
laconic  national  motto  is  presented  to  my  mind. 
8* 


86  E    PLURIBUS    UNUM. 

It  is  contained  in  the  beautiful  fable,  so  naively 
toldj  of  the  'old  man  and  his  sons;'  which, 
though  it  be  but  a  fable,  known,  possibly,  more 
to  our  youth,  than  to  after  life,  I  shall  not  crave 
pardon  for  here  transcribing — for,  could  we  more 
often  than  we  do,  go  back  to  the  simple  lessons  of 
our  youthful  days,  we  should,  as  I  opine,  find  more 
of  the  practical  wisdom  of  philosophers,  than  is 
now  usually  met  with. 

The  fable  runs  thus :  'An  old  i«ian  had  many 
sons,  who  were  often  falling  out  with  one  another. 
When  the  father  had  exerted  his  authority,  and 
used  other  means  in  order  to  reconcile  them,  and 
all  to  no  purpose,  at  last  he  had  recourse  to  this 
expedient :  he  ordered  his  sons  to  be  called  before 
him  and  a  short  bundle  of  sticks  to  be  brought — 
and  then  commanded  them,  one  by  one,  to  try  if, 
with  all  their  might  and  strength,  they  could  any 
one  of  them  break  it.  They  all  tried,  but  to  no  pur- 
pose; for  the  sticks  being  closely  and  compactly 
bound  up  together,  it  was  impossible  for  the  force 
of  man  to  do  it.  After  this  the  father  ordered  the 
bundle  to  be  untied,  and  gave  a  single  stick  to 
each  of  his  sons,  at  the  same  time  bidding  him  try 
to  break  it:  which,  when  each  did  with  all  imagina- 
ble ease,  the  father  addressed  himself  to  them  to 
this  effect — 'O  my  sons,  behold  the  power  of  unity! 
For  if  you,  in  like  manner,  would  but  keep  your- 
selves strictly  conjoined  in  the  bonds  of  friendship, 
it  would  not  be  in  the  power  of  any  mortal  to  hurt 
you ;  but,  when  once  the  ties  of  brotherly  affection 
are  dissolved,  how  soon  do  you  fall  to  pieces,  and 


E    PLURIBUS    UNUM.  87 

are  liable  to  be  violated  by  every  injurious  hand 
that  assaults  you  !' ' 

After  contrasting  the  foregoing  fable,  and  its 
various  applications,  with  an  elaborate  argument 
in  favour  of  Nullification  and  its  cognate  doctrines, 
I  could  not  but  still  more  admire  the  simple  and 
beautiful  wisdom  displayed  by  the  Greek  slave, 
and  wonder  that,  after  the  lapse  of  nearly  twenty- 
four  centuries,  many  of  our  philosophers  should 
have  manifested  so  little  of  that  practical  philo- 
sophy of  politics  and  of  morals,  and  so  little  of  that 
honest-hearted  wisdom  of  a  well-regulated  mind, 
which  the  fable  just  quoted  so  clearly  sets  forth. 

The  truth  is  that  the  lessons  of  the  Greek  fabu- 
list are  replete  with  sound  morals,  rich  in  deep  and 
practical  knowledge  of  the  human  heart ;  and  so 
admirable  in  political,  as  well  as  in  domestic  pru- 
dence, that  the  volume  which  embraces  them  may 
well  claim  equality,  at  least,  with  any  other  human 
production,  and  assert  its  rank  next  to  that  of  the 
Bible.  How  satisfying  to  the  mind  and  how 
directly  does  the  truth  of  this  apologue  go  to  the 
understanding  and  to  the  heart — and  how  tor- 
tuously, on  the  other  hand,  must  the  mind  labour, 
when  the  lengthened  columns  of  some  American 
freeman  and  statesman,  garishly  and  ingeniously 
set  forth  the  elaborate  argument  for  disunion  and 
nullification !  And  why  should  the  so  called  patriots 
of  our  land,  forsaking  the  natural  and  genial  truths 
of  ^sop,  coin  their  very  brains  for  topics  destruc- 
tive of  so  holy  a  maxim — one  that  teaches  the 
salutary  truth  that  a  power  almost  irresistible,  will 


88  E    PLURIBUS    UNUM. 

necessarily  flow  from  the  harmonious  union  of 
even  the  weakest  elements  ! — a  truth  revealed  as 
well  by  the  physical,  as  the  moral  world — a  truth 
of  which  the  very  beasts  that  roam  the  forests,  the 
dwellers  of  the  watery  deep,  nay,  the  very  animal- 
cules that  float  in  a  drop,  or  wage  their  tiny  wars 
on  the,  to  them,  broad  expanse  of  a  single  fig  seed, 
do  most  constantly  practise — in  fine,  a  truth  which 
men  and  angels,  and  even  the  great  Eternal  loves 
to  inculcate,  as  the  bosom  of  their  peace — the  for- 
tress of  their  security ! 

The  same  great  and  living  principle  we  likewise 
find,  in  the  account  given  us  by  Valerius  Maximus, 
of  Sertorius,  who,  when  proscribed  by  Sylla, 
took  the  command  of  the  Lusitani.  His  men 
being  strongly  inclined  to  give  battle,  at  once,  to 
the  whole  Roman  forces,  though  greatly  superior 
to  them  in  number,  their  commander  used  every 
argument  that  interest,  reason,  and  ingenuity  could 
devise,  to  dissuade  them  from  their  rash  purpose ; 
but  all  in  vain.  At  length,  Sertorius  had  recourse 
to  a  different  species  of  eloquence.  He  ordered 
two  horses  to  be  brought  before  him ;  at  the  tail  of 
one  of  these  he  placed  a  young  and  vigorous  sol- 
dier, and  at  that  of  the  other  a  veteran,  whose  long 
experience  had  worn  off  much  of  his  youthful 
ardour.  These  persons  he  commanded,  respec- 
tively, to  pull  off  the  horse's  tail !  The  young 
soldier  began  by  pulling  with  his  utmost  force,  the 
whole  at  once ;  whilst  the  old  veteran  very  deli- 
berately went  to  work  by  pulling  it  out,  nearly  hair 
by  hair  !    The  young  man  wholly  failed  ;  for  what 


E    PLURIBUS    UNUM.  89 

he  essayed  to  do  demanded  the  strength  of  a  Poly- 
phemus, as  the  resistance  offered  arose  from  the 
united  strength  of  myriads,  each  of  which  was  but 
a  feeble  opponent.  The  veteran,  on  the  other 
hand,  effectually  executed  his  task,  guided,  as  he 
was,  by  the  motto — 'divide  and  conquer.'  By  this 
forcible  appeal,  made  so  visible,  not  only  the  poiver 
of  union,  but  the  essential  weakness  of  division, 
became  so  manifest,  that  Sertorius  had  the  happi- 
ness soon  to  find  that  the  Lusitani  were  convinced 
of  their  error,  and  had  now  become  strong  again, 
through  the  obedience  that  produced  union. 

It  cannot  be  doubted  that  were  our  jurists,  our 
legislators,  and  our  statesmen  more  generally  ad- 
dicted to  the  study  of  universal  ethics — were  they 
to  search,  with  eagerness,'  after  the  precepts  of  a 
pure  and  manly  wisdom,  in  the  pages  of  holy  writ, 
and  in  those  of  ancient  and  modern  moralists,  and 
were  they  to  add  to  these  the  thousand  lessons 
taught  by  the  history  of  all  nations  and  of  all  ages, 
they  would  repose  with  much  less  confidence  than 
they  now  do,  on  the  thousand  experiments  and 
crude  fancies  \vhich  characterize  our  age  and  coun- 
try; and  we  should  have  less  occasion  to  deplore 
the  miseries  that  flow  from  erroneous  views  in 
government,  laws  and  morals — and  have  much 
less  of  those  radical  and  destructive  doctrines, 
which,  if  persisted  in,  will  as  inevitably  fritter 
away,  and  finally  destroy-  every  conservative  prin- 
ciple of  our  government  and  union,  as  the  horse's 
tail,  under  the  gradual  manipulation  of  the  wily  old 
veteran,  slowly,  though  certainly  disappeared. 


90  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL  EATER. 

NOTE  VII. THE  PHILOSOPHICAL  EATER. 

In  the  preceding  note  the  reader  will  find  how 
great  an  admirer  of  ^sop  I  have  ever  been ;  and, 
also,  how  justly  he  ranks  with  the  sagest  philoso- 
phers of  any  age,  maugre  that  little  boys  and  boy- 
ish men  are  so  apt  to  estimate  him  lightly,  from 
their  horn-book  acquaintance  ""with  his  name — but 
but  not  witli  the  riches  of  his  wisdom.  It  seems 
like  one  of  nature's  most  sportive  freaks,  thus  to 
have  enshrined  in  so  diminutive  and  ill-formed  a 
body,  a  mind  as  capacious  and  beautiful,  as  fancy 
and  philosophy  united  can  well  imagine!  for  all 
that  is  admirable  in  mere  human  morals,  orthodox 
in  general  politics,  and  salutary  in  domestic  eco- 
nomy, may  be  found  either  strongly  set  forth,  and 
forcibly  illustrated,  or,  at  other  times,  shadowed  in 
the  life,  conversations,  and  writings  of  this  extra- 
ordinary man. 

It  so  happened,  a  short  time  ago,  that  the  popu- 
lar wisdom  of  the  Greek  fabulist  was  strongly 
shown  to  me,  in  its  influence  in  restraining  the 
gastronomic  propensities  of  our  race,  in  one  who 
thereafter  became  almost  proverbial  for  philosophi- 
cal and  methodical  abstemiousness.  I  dined,  as 
it  was  said  d''une  mani^re  sociable,  with  an  Apician 
of  no  little  note,  and  a  few  others,  who  loved  good 
cheer.  The  table  was  slowly,  gravely,  methodi- 
cally, and  with  admirable  exactitude,  varied  by  a 
succession  of  dishes,  that  gradually  became  more 
and  more  recherche,  in  the  ratio  that  the  waning 
appetite  demanded  stronger  provocatives.     All  was 


THE    PHILOSOPHICAL   EATER.  91 

served  up,  with  matchless  concinnity,  on  a  cloth, 
of  the  purest  taste,  and  by  domestics  so  admirably 
schooled,  as  not  only  to  anticipate  your  every 
wish,  but  to  suggest  with  peculiar  and  winning 
delicacy,  many  others  that  could  scarce  have  oc- 
curred but  to  the  most  practised  palates  ;  and  this, 
too,  on  the  principle  of  producing  striking  results 
by  the  strongest  possible  contrasts — such,  for  ex- 
ample, as  piping  hot  plumb-pudding,  and  flinty- 
frozen  ice-cream ;  mustard  and  sweet  jellies ; 
strawberries  and  pepper ;  Roman  punch  with  a 
sprinkling  of  cayenne  ! 

The  lord  of  the  feast,  however,  as  his  evil 
genius  on  that  day  would  have  it,  was  obviously 
a  lame  duck  as  to  appetite :  for  nothing  that  was 
present  responded  to  his  fitful  cravings ;  most 
things  were  inal-concocted — some  were  but  tasted, 
and  others  churlishly  rejected. 

Seated  near  me  was  a  little  gendeman  in  black, 
scarce  an  inch  or  two  above  five  feet  high,  with 
a  well-powdered  semi-bald  head,  linen  of  perfect 
whiteness,  relieved  by  an  emerald  of  exquisite 
colour  and  water,  evidently  of  large  value,  that 
had  been  found  in  a  tomb  of  great  antiquity  in 
Persia,  (for  he  proved  to  have  been  a  great  tra- 
veller.) 

This  gentleman  in  black,  and  of  small  bodily 
dimensions,  but  of  large  mental  capacities,  was  to 
our  host  a  total  stranger,  having  been  introduced 
there  somewhat  in  a  spirit  of  merriment  by  one  of 
the  guests,  who  counted  that  if  the  Apician  were 
in  high  appetite,  as  was  generally  the  case  when 


92  THE    PHILOSOPHICAL   EATER. 

the  company  was  select  and  small,  they  could 
scarce  fail  to  be  greatly  amused  with  the  strange 
conflicts  likely  to  ensue  between  him  and  this 
very  learned  magister  of  methodical  eating;  since 
no  two  persons  could  have  been  better  selected  to 
contrast  to  the  life,  their  several  and  very  distinct 
modes  of  living.  The  travelling  gentleman,  during 
the  numerous  courses,  preserved  a  marvellous  taci- 
turnity— ate  with  high  relish  and  a  natural  appe- 
tite, yet,  to  the  surprise  of  all,  except  his  friend,  he 
persisted  in  retaining,  through  all  the  services,  the 
viand  with  which  he  had  commenced,  and  with 
which  the  servants,  understanding  his  humour, 
with  perfect  tact,  instantly  supplied  him.  In 
truth,  he  ate  profoundly  of  the  one  dish,  whilst 
the  disabled  Apician  could  of  none. 

The  peculiarity  of  the  little  gentleman's  tenacity 
to  the  mutton,  excited  no  httle  merriment;  when, 
towards  the  close  of  the  dinner,  and  after  the 
various  wines  had  been  freely  circulated,  it  was 
remarked  that  he  had  selected  pale  sherry,  and 
could  not  be  induced  even  to  taste  of  any  other. 
Our  hero,  however,  had  now  obtained  the  un- 
limited use  of  his  tongue,  which  he  applied  in  a 
more  customary,  and,  to  him,  with  a  more  legiti- 
mate purpose,  than  as  an  auxiliary  in  eating ;  and 
thereby  soon  approved  himself  a  most  delightful 
companion,  a  ripe  and  good  scholar,  and  an  amusing 
moralist  withal.  The  Apician,  at  first  chary  of  his 
stranger-looking  guest,  was  not  slow  in  perceiving, 
that  his  hidden  treasures  were  not  designed  to  be 
churlishly  withheld,  jocosely  remarked,  'The  gen- 


THE    PHILOSOPHICAL   EATER.  93 

tleman  of  the  one  viand  and  of  the  one  wine,  I 
clearly  perceive  has  so  long  made  use  of  his  mind 
as  a  well  arranged  cuisine,  where  may  be  found 
the  most  varied  and  savory  dishes,  that  he  holds 
it   unfair    that   one    tenement    should    have    two 
kitchens,  and  has  therefore  abandoned  to  us  that 
which  has  charge  of  those  which  appertain  to  the 
outer  man.'    This  jeu   cfesprit,   which   was   fair 
enough   for  the   occasion,   and   considering  from 
whom  it  came,  was  promptly  responded  to  by  the 
small  man  in  black,  who  was  becoming  still  more 
voluble  !     'By  no  means,'  said  he,  'you  mistake 
me  greatly,  if  you  suppose  that   I   value  mental 
fodder  only  •,  we  all  have  a  body  as  well  as  mind 
to  nourish,  and  I   hold  in  no  disparagement  the 
numerous  preparations  that  emanate  from  the  se- 
cond cuisine  to  which  you  have  alluded,  and  to 
which,  this  day,  we  are  all  so  largely  indebted — 
you  all  to  the  many,  and  I  to  the  one.     It  must 
be   admitted,'   continued   he,   'that   the   object   of 
eating  may  justly  be  extended  beyond  the  mere 
nourishing  of  the  corps  physique.     I  concede,  that 
there  are  delights  attendant  on  it  which  may  be 
legitimately  indulged,  if  the  mens  sana  iii  corpore 
sano  be  ever  kept  in  view.     You,  gentlemen,  and 
I  differ  only  as  to  the  m^odus  in  quo:  for  whilst  I 
acknowledge  that  this  gratification  is  not  limited 
to  the  naked  object  of  sustaining  the  body,  but 
may  be  rendered,  in  some  degree,  even  intellec- 
tual, my  plan  differs  from  yours  toto  codo,  in  this 
important  particular.     Were   I,  like  you,  to  taste 
every  thing  at  one  sitting,  I  should,  probably,  after 
9 


94  THE    PHILOSOPHICAL    EATER. 

a  while,  have  no  taste  at  all ;  but,  by  restricting 
myself  at  each  meal  to  one  dish,  and  to  one  wine, 
I  enjoy  all  that  is  known  to  the  culinary  art,  and 
the  wines,  also,  of  every  region,  and  my  enjoyment 
is  both  fresh  and  enduring ;  hence  it  is,  that  I  have 
so  keenly  relished  to-day  my  mutton  and  sherry, 
with  a  slowly  diminishing  gusto — whilst  you,  gen- 
tlemen, have  been  obliged  to  resort  to  numerous 
provocatives  ;  and  as  for  mine  host,  with  all  his 
science,  and  the  amiable  jeers  at  the  oneness  of  my 
prajidium,  he  seems  to  have  made  but  a  slender 
repast  on  simples,  amidst  a  profusion  of  the  most 
artfully  contrived  delicacies  !' 

Here  the  laugh  was  fairly  turned  on  the  Apician, 
who  bore  it  with  the  more  grace,  not  only  as  being 
the  assailant,  but  because  of  certain  painful  twitches, 
which  for  some  hours  past  had  rendered  him  no 
little  curious  to  know  of  our  philosopher,  how  it 
"was  that  high  health,  a  keen  relish  and  accurate 
taste  remained  so  long  with  him,  when  his  own 
health,  appetite,  and  taste,  were  as  fitful  as  the 
inconstant  moon.  'Do  tell  us,'  said  he,  'how  it  is 
that  you  first  contracted  the  habit — and  have  been 
able  to  persist  in  it — of  using  but  one  dish  and  one 
wine,  surrounded  as  you  have  been  with  the  world 
of  good  cheer  you  must  have  met  during  your 
long  and  extensive  travels?' 

'You  shall  know  the  whole,  with  all  my  heart,' 
replied  our  travelling  moralist,  'but  only  on  con- 
dition that,  when  told,  you'll  not  laugh  at  me 
unmercifully.'  'Do,  do,  the  terms  are  freely  ac- 
cepted,'  exclaimed    they   all ;    'and    we    promise, 


THE    PHILOSOPHICAL    EATER.  95 

moreover,  to  be  your  devoted  disciples,  if  you  also 
impart  to  us  youth,  resolution,  a  palate,  an  appe- 
tite, and  olfactories,  even,  that  deal  only  with  one 
instead  of  many,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !'  'Hold,  gentlemen, 
you  have  already  broken  your  promise.'  'By  no 
means,'  said  one  of  the  company  ;  'our  promise, 
you  remember,  was  only,  not  to  laugh  at  you, 
after  your  experience  had  been  delivered;  but, 
proceed,  we  are  all  attention.'  Our  philosopher, 
after  eyeing  those  around  him,  and  adjusting  his 
tortoise  shell  spectacles,  with  due  solemnity  thus 
redeemed  his  promise, 

'When  a  lad,  at  Eton,  I  was  distinguished 
among  my  companions  for  two  very  dissimilar 
things — an  almost  ravenous  and  indiscriminate 
indulgence  of  my  gastronomic  propensities,  and 
for  the  studious  reading  of  all  such  works  on 
practical  morals,  as  were  at  all  suited  to  my  age. 
Among  these  was  Ji^sop's  fables — a  special  favour- 
ite with  me,  and  to  which  I  became  so  devoted, 
that  tlie  boys  in  derision  used  to  call  me  their 
'Phrygian  Slave' — 'Little  Bow-legs' — 'Sooty  Stut- 
terer'— 'Crossus'  Favourite,'  &c.;  all  in  allusion 
to  well  known  facts  in  ^sop's  history.'  But 
these  good-natured  taunts  in  no  way  diminished 
my  regard  for  the  cherished  volume.  The  fables 
greatly  pleased,  not  only  my  young  imagination, 
but  my  heart  and  judgment.  I  delighted  to  com- 
mune with  beasts,  birds,  fishes,  and  reptiles,  and 
to  drink  in  the  purest  counsels,  from  the  lips  of 
those  whose  endowment  with  the  faculty  of  speech 
seemed  once  more  to  bring   the  whole  of  God's 


96  THE    PHILOSOPHICAL   EATER. 

creation  into  that  universal  and  sweet  communion, 
in  which  fancy  or  history  finds  them  when  they 
were  all  first  created.  The  rationality  with  which 
^sop  has  invested  all  nature,  inanimate  as  well  as 
animate,  also  brought  my  youthful  imagination 
back  to  times  of  the  earliest  antiquity,  and  inspired 
'me  with  an  eager  desire  to  trace  not  only  man's 
degenerate  history,  but  the  manifestations  of  those 
instincts  and  habits  of  other  animals,  that  supplied 
the  place  of  reason  after  they,  with  man,  felt  the 
great  shock  and  sad  reverse  that  flowed  from  the 
sanctions  of  a  first  violated  law.  No  other  work 
of  the  purest  fiction  could  have  raised  in  my 
young  and  ardent  mind,  half  the  interest  these 
fables  did,  as  they  seemed  to  invoke  man  to  lay 
aside  his  false  pride,  and  to  receive,  from  his 
created  inferiors,  those  oracles  of  wisdom  he  has 
so  long  neglected. 

'Now,  gentlemen,  it  so  happened,  that  after  a 
inontem  surfeit,  indulged  in  with  some  of  my 
companions,  who  on  other  days,  also,  than  Whit- 
Tuesday,  worshipped  the  god  Venter,  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  nearly  all  other  gods,  I  was  enduring 
the  pains  and  penalties  of  our  homage,  Avhen  I 
had  recourse  to  my  favourite  author;  and,  on 
opening  it,  the  first  fable  that  arrested  my  atten- 
tion was  that  of  the  ^Ass  eati7isr  Thistles.'' 

'This  poor  beast,  as  you  all  know,  was  loaded 
with  well  balanced  panniers,  filled  to  repletion  with 
all  sorts  of  dainty  provisions  for  his  master  and 
his  retainers.  Pursuing  his  way,  the  humble  ass 
encountered  on  the  road-side  a  fine  large  thistle; 


THE    PHILOSOPHICAL    EATER.  97 

and,  not  being  out  of  appetite,  he  made  on  it  a 
most  delicious  repast.  Whilst  so  emploj^ed,  he 
also  thus  philosophized :  'How  many  greedy 
epicures,'  said  he,  'would  think  themselves  happy 
amidst  such  a  variety  of  delicate  viands  as  I  now 
carry !  but,  to  me,  this  bitter,  prickly  thistle  is  far 
more  savory  and  relishing  than  the  most  exquisite 
and  sumptuous  banquet.' 

'The  ass,  gentlemen,  knew  very  well  that  the 
epicures  that  day,  who  were  to  dine  with  his 
master,  would  delight  in  the  anticipation  of  each 
and  all  the  viands ;  but,  perhaps,  he  did  not  know 
the  misery  of  a  sated  and  exhausted  stomach — one 
that  having  been  wearied  and  diseased  by  a  too 
much  and  a  too  mixed  indulgence  of  the  goods 
of  the  table,  ends  in  the  wreck  of  mental  as  well 
as  of  bodily  health.  The  ass,  I  am  sure,  knew 
nothing  of  the  arthritic — nothing  of  the  pains  that 
torture  'Me  toe  of  libertine  excess'' — nothing  of 
the  famed  six  cogent  arguments  for  the  gentility, 
honour,  and  blessing  of  the  gout,  as  given  by  one 
Philander  Misaurus — and,  finally,  nothing  that 
might  well  be  said  in  reply  to  Master  Misaurus. 
But,  as  for  myself,  my  resolution  was  at  once 
taken  ;  and,  with  the  fable  in  my  hand,  and  with 
many  pains  in  my  head  and  stomach,  consequent 
upon  my  recent  surfeit,  I  mentally  vowed,  thence- 
forth and  forever,  to  go  with  the  ass  in  the  sim- 
plicity— the  oneness  of  my  diet ;  and  that,  if  1 
must  gormandize,  it  should  not  be  physically,  but 
mentally ;  it  should  be  the  helluatio  libroriim,  sed 
9* 


99  THE    PHILOSOPHICAL    EATER. 

non  ciborum;  and  to  this  resolve  have  I  ever  since 
most  tenaciously  adhered. 

'Nearly  forty  years  have  now  passed,  and  I  have 
enjoyed  the  most  buoyant  health,  an  unmitigated 
natural  appetite,  and,  what  may  seem  to  you  very 
strange,  I  am  both  practically  and  theoretically 
acquainted  with  the  results  of  the  culinary  art,  of 
nearly  every  region  of  the  globe.  And  though  I 
have  dined  to-day  on  mutton  and  sherry,  you  must 
not  imagine  that  I  have  done  the  like  through  life: 
for  it  is  quite  probable,  that  were  you  to  seek  in  the 
lives  and  works  of  famed  eaters,  or  of  those  who 
record  their  exploits,  from  the  times  of  the  Gre- 
cian Methecus,  Epicurus,  Glcmcus,  Egisippus  and 
others ;  in  the  writings  of  the  Roman  Varro,  Colu- 
mella, and  Apicius,  or,  finally,  in  the  more  modern 
Plati?ii,  Scappi,  Vo7i  Rwnokr,  Kitchener,  the  Alma- 
nac des  Gourmands,  Ude,  and  a  host  of  others,  you 
will  scarce  find  one  among  the  good  livers,  who 
ever  ate  or  drank  of  a  greater  variety  of  exquisite 
dishes  or  wines,  and  yet  with  no  pains  of  head, 
eyes,  or  venter,  than  myself — all  of  which  was  the 
happy  result  of  a  rigid  avoidance  of  all  jnixture  at 
the  same  meal,  that  is  of  more  than  one  viand  with 
its  appropriate  vegetable,  and  one  wine.' 

Here  the  loquacious  Mr.  Cornaro  (for  that  was 
the  nom  d'^Iiotineur  which  the  Apician  afterwards 
conferred  on  him,)  would  have  ended  his  singular 
narrative ;  but  such  was  the  interest,  as  well  as 
curiosity,  which  our  iEsopian  sage  had  by  this 
time  excited,  that  he  was  not  long  permitted  to 
remain  silent.     The  wonder  still  continued  how 


THE    PHILOSOPHICAL   EATER.  99 

he  could  possibly  have  become  so  practically  fami- 
liar with  all  that  is  known  in  the  French,  German, 
Italian,  and  Asiatic  cuisine^  consistently  with  his 
alleged  restriction.     'There  is  no  difficulty  here 
gentlemen,  that  needs  much  explanation,  to  vindi- 
cate my  jeoparded  veracity,'  replied  Mr.  Cornaro, 
with  some  mixture  of  good  humour  and  gravity; 
'much  may  surely  have  been  done  in  this  way,  du- 
ring so  many  years,  acting  as  I  ever  was  on  a  uni- 
form system.    Nature,  as  I  before  stated,  had  given 
me  strong  propensities  to  good  cheer;  art  was,  there- 
fore, to  be  invoked,  after  I  had  formed  my  reso- 
lution, so  as  to  minister  to  this  propensity  as  much 
of  comfort  as  might  consist  with  the  faithful  exe- 
cution of  my  vow ;   and  this  was  effected,  by  my 
enjoying  the  numerous  goods  of  the  table,  in  all 
countries,  not  as  you  have  done,  consociately,  nor 
yet  consecutively,  but  truly  separately,  by  always 
leaving  an  interval  for  each  of  at  least  twenty- four 
hours.    Now,  my  friends,  we  seem  to  have  differed 
essentially,  in  our  practice,  only  in  two  things  ;  but 
these  two  produce  all  the  difference.     Unlike  you, 
I  have  invariably  shunned  mixture,  and  have  also 
rigidly  stopped  eating  as  soon  as  there  was  a  clear 
manifestation   that   hunger   had    subsided  :    for   I 
never  ate  any  thing  through  the  medium  of  a  pro- 
vocative, or  for  a  mere  palatial  gratification.' 

Here  an  involuntary  smile,  amounting  to  a 
subdued  laugh,  became  visible  on  every  counte- 
nance— for  Mr.  Cornaro  was  certainly  an  egregious 
pedant,  at  least  in  the  use  of  language.  But,  he 
proceeded.     'My  variety,  then,  arose  from  a  daily, 


100  THE    PHILOSOPHICAL   EATER. 

weekly,  or  monthly  change  of  diet,  or  of  the  mode 
of  preparing  it ;  and  though  I  indulged  in  this  sin- 
gleness at  each  meal,  forty  years  are  surely  quite 
sufficient  to  exhaust  every  article  to  be  found  in 
the  united  bills  of  fare  of  Europe  and  of  Asia. 
But,  that  I  might  perfect  my  plan,  I  kept  with  an 
exact  care,  what  I  called  my  Index  Expurgato- 
rius — for  if  any  of  the  numerous  articles  disagreed 
with  me  twice,  I  recorded  it  there,  and  never 
touched  it  more.  My  extensive  travels,  more- 
over, rather  harmonized  with  this  mode  of  living. 
Nature  seemed  to  have  provided  for  man  the  means 
of  a  rich  and  various  repast ;  all  things  were  evi- 
dently created  for  his  use,  but  it  was  equally  clear 
to  me,  that  the  abuse  consisted  in  the  villanous 
mixtures,  and  in  the  oppressive  quantities,  so 
universally  consumed  at  a  single  meal ;  still,  my 
Etonian  philosophy  and  resolution  were  not  so 
ultra  as  to  occlude  any  thing  that  nature,  or  a 
well-devised  art  had  provided,  so  long  as  it  proved 
to  me  a  friend.  Mixture  and  excess  were  the  only 
enemies  with  which  I  had  to  combat ;  and  if  I 
occasionally  discovered  a  foe  among  the  many  arti- 
cles enrolled  in  the  bills  of  fare,  I  bade  it  a  willing 
and  eternal  farewell.  How  much  was  thereby 
saved  to  my  purse — how  little  I  had  to  connnune 
with  the  sons  of  Esculapius — how  much  time  has 
been  economized,  and  how  many  incommodities, 
and  pains  of  every  kind,  I  have  avoided,  need  not 
now  be  recounted.  A  catalogue  of  ingeniously  con- 
trived dishes,  «fcc.  under  the  heads  of  Potages — 
Petit  s  hors-d''ceuvres — Poissons — Barn/ — Eiitrtes 


THE    PHILOSOPHICAL    EATER.  101 

de  Patisserie — de  Volaille — de  Veau — the  Entre- 
mets de  Lesume — de  Douceur — the  Desserts — 
— as  also  the  Vins  rouges — the  Vins  blcmcs  les 
liqueurs,  6)'c.  6f'c.  never  gave  me  the  least  alarm, 
as  I  partook  of  only  a  single  viand  from  the  long 
list,  and  on  occasions  of  required  temperance, 
dined  at  Very'^s,  the  Grand  Valet,  or  at  the  Rocher 
de  Cancale,  in  great  comfort,  on  a  Charlotte  russe, 
(but  never  of  course  on  an  omHette  soiiffiS,)  with  a 
glass  of  iced  water,  I  found  that,  even  after  a  few 
years,  every  article  of  every  bill  of  fare,  was  per- 
fectly familiar  to  me. 

'I  cast  my  eye  over  all  animated  nature,  and 
found  MAN  to  be  the  only  cooking  animal !  Cook- 
ing, then,  was  evidently  no  deflexion  from  his 
nature,  but  of  the  very  ordination  of  Him  by 
whom  he  was  created.  Animals  cook  not,  merely 
because  they  cannot ;  man  cooks,  as  prompted 
thereto  by  reasen  and  by  knowledge  ;  and  even 
brute  beasts  are  sometimes  greatly  benefitted  in 
their  food,  by  man's  acquaintance  with  the  chemi- 
cal and  other  results  of  the  culinary  art. 

'You  see,  then,  gentlemen,  that  I  am  far  from 
joining  in  a  proscription  against  this  useful  science 
of  cooking;  which,  if  it  hath  killed  its  hundreds, 
it  has  also  blessed  and  prolonged  the  lives  of  its 
millions.  And  though  it  was,  perhaps,  an  exag- 
gerated fancy  in  Voltaire  to  say,  in  his  accustomed 
general  way,  f/u^Ufi  cuisiuier  est  v.n  mortal  divin,  it 
is  still  a  fact  that  the  statistics  of  France  show  a 
manifest  diminution  of  disease,  and  a  consequent 
prolongation  of  human  life,  since  the  art  of  cook- 


102  THE    PHILOSOPHICAL    EATER. 

ing  has  assumed  the  form  of  a  science  ;  and  I  am 
quite  satisfied  that  the  preparation  of  dishes  a  la 
Frangaisey  ou  a  Vltalian,  is  more  conducive  to  both 
resuhs,  than  the  raw  and  savage  mode  so  usual  in 
my  native  land.  I  have  a  particular  fondness  for 
the  French  entremet  of  aspergis  aux  petitis  pois, 
but  have  never  since  my  return  to  England,  now  a 
full  half  year,  been  able,  even  by  many  threats 
and  large  bribery,  to  prevail  on  any  cook  to  serve 
them  more  than  half-boiled.  This  you  know  was 
a  Roman  fashion  to  a  proverb — asparago  citius — 
and  Augustus  used  to  say,  when  he  desired  to 
have  his  commands  quickly  executed,  'do  it  as 
speedily  as  asparagus  boils.'  But  though  it  be 
thus  ancient  and  imperial,  it  is  a  cruel  fashion 
and  no  where  more  savagely  practised  than  in 
England. 

'Your  vegetables  are  only  scalded,  your  viands 
are  often  but  scorched,  and  your  game  comes  to 
the  table,  more  cooked  by  the  sceptic  process  of 
nature,  than  by  the  fires  of  the  cuisine.  The  gra- 
vamen^  then,  of  which  alone  I  have  to  complain, 
is  not  of  cookery,  in  most  of  its  modern  forms, 
(and  especially  out  of  England,)  but  simply  of  the 
uses,  or  rather  abuses,  made  of  its  luxurious  results. 
The  cook  has  generally  performed  his  duty,  and 
produced  almost  invariably,  things  edible  and 
highly  salutary  ;  but  his  employers  have  rendered 
them  almost  poisonous,  by  blending  so  many  of 
them  at  a  single  meal,  and  by  an  indulgence  with- 
out stint,  long  after  appetite  has  ceased,  and  after 
the  powers  of  digestion  have  nearly  terminated. 


THE    PHILOSOPHICAL    EATER.  103 

'The  ancient  cooks,  you  remember,  were  at  one 
time  the  vilest  of  slaves  ;  but,  after  a  while,  they 
rose  in  high  estimation;  and,  leaving  their  kitchens, 
they  came  with  triumph  into  the  schools,  among 
the  philosophers.  Their  vile  vocation  became  an 
honoured  art,  and  lastly,  even  a  lauded  science : — 
for  it  is  said  that  the  Syracusian  Archestratus,  after 
travelling  over  the  world  in  search  of  good  cheer, 
composed  an  epic  poem  to  illustrate  its  heroes;  and 
that  even  Aristotle  did  not  think  the  ars  culinaria 
unworthy  of  his  philosophic  pen. 

'I  speak  not  here  in  commendation  of  that  un- 
meaning luxury,  and  expensive  gluttony,  which 
marked  the  career  of  a  Vitellius,  a  Heliogabalus,  a 
Geta,  a  LucuUus,  a  Claudius,  or  a  Gallienus.  Mag- 
nificence, taste,  and  science,  when  carried  to  such 
excesses,  lose  all  their  charms,  and  sink  into  a 
degrading  and  disgusting  fatuity.  You  remem- 
ber, for  instance,  the  emperor  Geta  was  so  refined 
an  epicure,  and  had  such  an  insatiate  maw,  withal, 
that  his  numerous  dishes  were  brought  in  by  divi- 
sions, and  each  alphabetically;  and  that  his  feed- 
ing would  sometimes  endure  several  days  without 
intermission.  We  are  likewise  told  that  the  em- 
peror Vitellius  was  entertained,  by  his  brother 
Lucius,  with  many  thousand  rare  and  expensive 
fishes,  and  with  no  less  than  seven  thousand 
choice  birds,  each  of  peculiar  value ;  and  further, 
that  luxury  had  attained  such  a  mad  height  among 
the  Romans,  that  the  palate  seemed  to  derive  enjoy- 
ment from  the  combined  consideration  of  the  vast 
expense  and   shocking  cruelties  with'  which   the 


104  THE    PHILOSOPHICAL   EATER. 

articles  served  up  were  procured.  Hence  was  it, 
that  the  combs  of  living  cocks,  in  vast  numbers, 
were  cut  from  their  heads  to  form  a  single  dish  ; 
the  brains  of  thousands  of  peacocks  occasioned 
vast  slaughter,  to  satisfy  the  ideal  taste  of  a  beastly 
monarch  ;  rare  singing  and  talking  birds,  each  of 
no  small  value,  were  collected  on  a  large  platter, 
and  were  then  valued  in  what  would  now  amount 
to  nearly  five  thousand  pounds  of  our  money, 
lampreys  were  said  to  be  rendered  inexpressibly 
delicious,  by  being  fed  on  human  flesh ;  and 
even  costly  pearls  were  dissolved  to  swell  up  the 
expense  of  their  bill  of  fare,  and  to  make  the  com- 
bination of  expense  with  cruelty,  as  perfect  as 
possible. 

'Well  might  the  splendid  Lucullus,  in  such  an 
age,  designate  each  of  the  various  eating  saloons 
of  his  palace,  by  the  name  of  some  deity,  so  that 
the  steward  of  his  banquets  might  know,  at  once, 
the  intended  expense  and  magnificence  of  a  ccena^ 
by  his  master's  merely  stating  the  name  of  the 
saloon  in  which  he  would  have  it  take  place. 
Well  might  the  cuisiniers  of  those  days  collect, 
at  untold  prices,  the  crabs  of  Chios,  the  trouts  of 
Pessinuntium,  the  cranes  of  Melos,  the  peacocks 
of  Samos,  the  turkeys  of  Phrygia,  the  kids  of  Am- 
bracia,  the  oysters  of  Tarento,  and  even  of  distant 
Albion,  where  we  now  happily  are,  and  especially 
after  the  Trajan  Apicius  had  discovered  the  im- 
portant art  of  keeping  them  almost  indefinitely 
fresh.  Well  might  they  do  all  this,  and  likewise 
go  to  Egypt  for  dates,  to  Iberia  for  chestnuts,  and 


THE    PHILOSOPHICAL   EATER.  105 

also  expend,  as  the  Tiberian  Apicius  is  said  to 
have  done,  no  less  than  a  million  sterling  on  his 
kitchen :  for  it  is  manifest,  that  the  deity  of  the 
then  world,  was  the  god  of  every  vitiated  appetite 
of  body  and  of  soul ;  and  that  the  Jupiter  tonans 
should  have  taken  the  name  of  Jupiter  edans  ! 

'Very  different,  however,  is  the  luxury  and  the 
refined  aims  of  the  culinary  art  of  the  present  age; 
which,  though  sometimes  carried  to  excess,  and 
often  abused  by  the  mixtures  and  quantities  in 
which  we  indulge,  and  which  I  have  so  carefully 
guarded  against,  is  an  art  entitled  to  great  com- 
mendation. The  luxury  of  the  ancients,  often 
brutal,  unmeaning,  and  foolishly  extravagant,  is 
widely  removed  from  ours,  which  is  far  more  sub- 
dued ill  every  particular — has  the  utilities  of  life 
much  more  in  view — is  far  more  scientifi.c  and 
salutary, — and,  were  every  one  to  adopt  the  plan 
suggested  to  me  by  my  Montem  surfeit,  aided  by 
the  iEsopian  fable  I  have  mentioned,  I  see  no  rea- 
son to  fear  the  decline  of  the  culinary  art.  The 
entire  system  of  European  and  of  Asiatic  cookery 
might  remain,  and  become  still  more  refined  and 
improved :  for  my  long  experience  has  resulted  in 
proscribing  but  few  dishes,  and  still  fewer  among 
the  wines  and  liqueurs;  so  that,  after  all,  my 
Index  Expurgatorious  contains  but  a  meagre  list. 

'I  have  sometimes  thought,  that  the  national 
cookery  afforded  me  no  little  insight,  a  priori,  into 
the  national  character  of  a  people  ! — thus,  in  the 
fantastic  and  gossamer  features  of  nearly  all  that  is 
ushered  from  the  French  cuisine^  in  the  various 
10 


100  THE    PHILOSOPHICAL    EATER. 

colours,  distillations,  reductions,  and  refinements 
of  their  entrees^  their  entremets  de  legumes,  et  de 
douceur,  and  of  their  desserts,  we  find  mirrored 
forth  their  ardent  fancy — their  devotion  to  things 
of  taste  and  parade — their  artificial  worldly  policy 
and  speciousness — their  indomitable  vanity ;  and, 
above  all,  their  want  of  genuine  sentiment.     So, 
likewise,  in  the  substantial,  honest,  and  perfectly 
undisguised  dishes,  so  usual  among  the  Germans, 
we  perceive  their  national  phlegm,  their  characteris- 
tic openness,  their  laborious  habits,  their  indiife- 
rence  to  mere  physical  refinements,  and  their  per- 
\'ading  economy.      So,  in  our  own  country,  the 
simple  boil,  and  still  more  primitive  roast,  and  the 
almost    total    absence    of   all    greasy   appliances, 
suit  the  plain  and  unvarnished  character  of  John 
Bull ;  and,  finally,  the  hominy,  roasting-ears,  has- 
ty-pudding,  treacle,  wild-game,  succoiash,  and  a 
hundred  others,   among   the   Americans,    indicate 
their   Indian    associations — whilst   their  German, 
French,  British,  and  various  other  dishes,  mani- 
fest their  extremely  miscellaneous  origin;  and  that 
the  people  have  as  little  of  national  cookery  as  of 
national  character.      I  admit,  that  in  all  nations 
the  elite   will  depart   from  the   general  rule,  and 
that  gourmands  may  every  where  be  found,  seek- 
ing after  the  culinary  chef  d''(Buvres  of  other  lands. 
And  the  same  remark,  as  to  the  influence  of  diet 
on  character,  applies  to  individuals — the  emperor 
Charles  V.  not  being  much  out  of  the  way,  when 
he  said,  'I'll  tell  you  what  a  man  MmArs,  if  you'll 
tell  me  what  he  eatsJ^ 


THE    PHILOSOPHICAL    EATER.  107 

'In  the  use  of  wines,  I  have  sometimes  expe- 
rienced a  little  difficulty,  from  the  well-known 
practice  among  most  nations,  of  introducing  diffe- 
rent wines,  supposed  to  be  peculiarly  adapted  to 
the  several  courses.  In  France,  you  know,  the 
vin  ordinaire,  with  its  copious  admixture  of  water, 
is  made  to  flourish  for  a  time,  at  their  entertain- 
ments. The  vi?is  d''entremets  prevail  during  the 
intervals  between  the  courses ;  and  it  is  often  the 
case,  that  certain  dishes  demand  the  presence  of 
particular  wines.  If,  therefore,  the  cJiablis  must 
accompany  oysters,  and  cillery  the  roasts ;  if  the 
liqueurs,  or  the  highly  dry  wines  cannot  be  taken 
out  of  their  course,  I  had  to  make  my  selection, 
at  each  entertainment,  of  the  wine  destined  for  a 
known  course,  and  to  abstain,  before  and  after, 
from  all  others. 

'  I  should  have  experienced,  however,  insur- 
mountable obstacles  in  all  this,  had  the  Athenian 
practice  prevailed  of  drinking  toasts,  which  de- 
manded not  only  a  bumper,  but  that  the  cup 
should  be  drained,  in  each  case,  of  its  contents ; 
and  to  see  this  honestly  done,  officers  were  in  at- 
tendance, clothed  with  the  high  powers  of  seeing 
that  each  man  did  his  duty !  No  such  amiably 
intended  compulsion,  thanks  to  Bacchus,  ever  visit- 
ed me;  but  I  have  always  been  permitted  to  say, 
or  nod  my  '5ene  tnilii  bene  tibi,''  with  but  a  poorly 
replenished  glass,  and  that,  too,  but  only  tasted. 

'I  have  now,  gentlemen,  in  compliance  with 
your  wishes,  stated,  perhaps,  too  fully,  my  views 
of  the  mode  of  rationally  enjoying  all  the  good 


108  THE    PHILOSOPHICAL    EATER. 

cheer,  which  a  true  Apiciaii  ought  to  covet:  for 
the  sum  of  my  gratification  must  have  been  quite 
equal  to  that  of  any  one  of  yours  ;  and,  moreover, 
I  never  expended,  since  I  left  Eton,  a  single  pound 
on  all  the  Esculapians  of  my-own  and  of  other 
lands  ;  whereas,  even  among  the  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances, I  have  made  in  various  parts  of  the 
world,  I  may  truly  say,  with  the  Roman  proverb, 
plus  gula  quam  gladius.'* 

Here  Mr.  Cornaro  removed  his  spectacles,  called 
for  a  glass  of  water—and  was  silent. 

'I  confess,'  said  our  host,  'you  have  argued  your 
point  with  great  ingenuity  and  ability ;  and  if  you 
could  but  subtract  forty  years  from  the  sum  I  now 
count,  and  place  me  a  youth  at  Eton  school,  and 
give  me  Jlilsop's  fables  for  my  daily  study,  and 
surfeit  me  with  a  Montem  frolic — then,  all  that  you 
have  so  charmingly  detailed  would  scarce  fail  to 
make  me  a  practical  convert  to  your  unquestiona- 
bly sound  philosophy :  but,  as  it  is,  I  greatly 
fear  that,  for  the  residue  of  my  hfe,  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  say,  as  king  Agrippa  said  unto  Paul, 
almost  thou  persuadest  ine  to  he  thy  disciple.' 

With  this,  our  company  bade  adieu  to  their 
host — all  seemingly  much  pleased  with  so  curious 
a  specimen  of  an  ancient  philosopher,  who,  like 
the  wandering  Jew,  was  flourishing  in  modern 
times ! 


A    CURIOUS    PROPOSITION.  109 

NOTE    VIII. — A   CURIOUS    PROPOSITION. 

I  KNOW  not  where  to  refer  for  the  exact  terms  of 
a  proposition,  said  to  have  been  made  by  a  sage  to 
a  worldling,  in  illustration  of  the  extreme  folly  of 
those  who  jeopard  the  riches  of  the  life  to  come, 
for  any  pleasures  the  present  one  can  afford  ;  but  I 
remember,  it  struck  me  with  great  force  ;  and  was 
somewhat  after  this  fashion: — Suppose  the  whole 
earth  were  a  mass  of  distinct  globules  of  sand,  and 
that  every  globule  represented  a  thousand  years, 
and  that  during  the  aggregate   of  the  years,   so 
represented  by  the  entire  mass,  you  were  permitted 
to  enjoy,  not  merely  such  an  unalloyed  happiness 
as  you  could  contrive,  or  even  imagine,  but  such 
as  with   the  aid  of  the   gods  could   be  devised  ! 
would  you  at  once  seal  a  bond  with   Deity,  to 
relinquish  all  of  even  your  present  feeble  hopes  of 
eternal  happiness  thereafter,  for  the  certain  enjoy- 
ment of  the  myriads  of  years  that  this  world  of 
globules  would  thus  afford  you? — to  which,  as  the 
story   goes,   the    unhesitating   reply   to    the    sage 
was — No. 

And  this,  probably,  would  be  the  response  of 
almost  any  mind,  capable  of  the  least  reflection. 
Why  then,  it  may  well  be  asked,  does  man  so 
constantly  jeopard  his  eternal  happiness,  for  the 
uncertain  enjoyment  of  the  extremely  miscella- 
neous, and  ever  alloyed  pleasures,  he  can  snatch 
from  time,  during  the  k\v  years  allotted  to  him  in 
this  world?  Strange  infatuation !  wonderful  incon- 
sistency !  that  a  rational  mind  should,  in  theory^ 
10* 


110  A    CURIOUS    PROPOSITION. 

earnestly  reject  such  a  proposition,  and  yet,  in 
practice,  daily  commit  a  folly  infinitely  greater 
than  would  have  been  involved  in  its  acceptance. 
The  truth  is  that  man,  however  correct  in  his 
theoretical  views,  seldom  acts  on  any  very  defined 
principle  (if  he  acts  at  all)  in  opposition  to  his 
passions.  He  is  eminently  a  creature  of  circum- 
stances— of  impulses — and  is,  in  many  things,  a 
mere  bundle  of  habits !  He  seeks  for  present 
enjoyment,  and  seldom  graduates  his  conduct  in. 
reference  to  a  remote  future. 

The  foregoing  proposition  reminds  me  of  a  perti- 
nent, and  beautiful  illustration  of  the  same  matter, 
found  in  that  meritorious  and  curious  old  work, 
entitled  'Gesta  Romanorum,'  printed  by  Wynkyn 
de  Worde,  in  the  sixteenth  century;  which  I  ex- 
tract, with  some  alteration,  however,  of  the  ortho- 
graphy. 

In  the  fifth  of  the  Gesta,  or  stories  of  these 
Roman  emperors,  we  find  the  following: 

'Sometime  their  reigned  in  the  city  of  Rome, 
a  mighty  emperor,  and  wise,  named  Frederick, 
which  had  only  one  son,  whom  he  loved  much. 
This  emperor,  when  he  lay  in  the  point  of  death, 
called  unto  him  his  son,  and  said,  dear  son,  I 
have  a  ball  of  gold,  which  I  give  thee,  upon  my 
blessing,  that  thou  anon,  after  my  death,  shall  give 
it  to  the  most  fool  that  thou  mayest  find !  Then 
said  his  son,  my  lord,  without  doubt,  thy  will 
shall  be  fulfilled.  Anon,  this  young  lord,  after 
the  death  of  his  father,  went  and  sought  in  many 
realms,  and  found  many  fools  richless ;  and  be- 


A   CURIOUS   PROPOSITION.  Ill 

cause  he  would  satisfy  his  father's  will,  he  labour- 
ed further,  till  he  came  into  a  realm,  where  the 
law  was  such,  that  every  year  a  new  king  should 
be  chosen  there,  and  this  king  had  only  the  guiding 
of  that  realm  but  to  a  year's  end,  and  shall  then  be 
deposed  and  put  into  exile  in  an  island,  where 
he  should  wretchedly  finish  his  life !  When  the 
emperor's  son  came  into  this  realm,  the  new  king 
was  chosen  with  great  honour ;  and  all  manner  of 
minstrelsy  went  afore  him,  and  brought  him  with 
great  reverence  and  worship  unto  his  regal  seat: 
and  when  the  emperor's  son  saw  that,  he  came 
unto  him,  and  saluted  him  reverently,  and  said, — 
my  lord,  lo  I  give  thee  this  ball  of  gold,  on  my 
father's  behalf.  Then  said  the  king,  I  pray  thee 
tell  me  the  cause  why  thou  givest  me  this  ball? 
Then  answered  the  young  lord,  and  said  thus: 
My  father  charged  me,  O  king,  in  his  death  bed, 
under  pain  of  his  blessing,  that  I  should  give  this 
ball  to  the  most  fool  that  I  could  find  ;  wherefore  T 
have  sought  many  realms,  and  have  found  many 
fools, — nevertheless,  a  more  fool  than  thou  art, 
found  I  never;  and  therefore  this  is  the  reason. 
It  is  not  unknown  to  thee  that  thou  shalt  reign 
but  a  year,  and  at  the  year's  end,  that  thou  shalt 
be  exiled  into  such  a  place,  where  thou  shalt  die  a 
mischievous  death; — wherefore  I  hold  thee  for  the 
most  fool  that  ever  I  found,  that,  for  the  lordship 
of  a  year,  thou  wouldst  so  wilfully  lease  thyself! 
and  therefore,  before  all  others,  I  have  given  thee 
this  ball  of  gold. 

'Then  said  the  king,  without  doubt,  thou  sayetli 


112  A    CURIOUS    PROPOSITION. 

the  truth  ;  and,  therefore,  when  I  am  in  full  power 
of  this  realm,  I  shall  send  before  me  great  treasure 
and  riches,  wherewith  I  may  live,  and  relieve 
myself  from  mischievous  death,  when  that  I  shall 
be  exiled  and  put  down.  Wherefore,  at  the  year's 
end,  he  was  exiled,  and  lived  there  in  peace,  upon 
such  goods  as  he  had  sent  before ;  and  he  died 

afterwards   a  good    death  ! Dear  friends,   this 

Emperor  is  the  Father  of  Heaven.' 

And  the  story  might,  perhaps,  have  added  that 
this  son  was  Jesus  Christ,  and  the  foolish  king, 
who  afterwards  became  wise,  and  followed  the 
sage  admonition  given  him,  is  every  son  of  man 
who  takes  counsel  from  the  gospel,  and  who,  in 
disregard  of  the  temporary  fascinations  of  the 
world,  lays  up  his  treasures  in  heaven.  Well 
would  it  be,  if  every  one,  when  so  admonished, 
and  having,  perhaps,  an  equally  temporary  lease 
of  life,  that  this  king  had  of  his  realm,  would 
do  as  he  did — prepare,  now,  for  a  never-ending 
fee-simple  of  bliss,  beyond  the  grave. 


CHAPTER   in. 

IX.    ST.  Peter's  chair  at  rome. — x.    was  st.  peter  ever 

AT   ROME? — XI.     DR.  WATSON   AND   THE   STUART   PAPERS. — 
XII.     TAKING   HEAVEN   BY   STORM. 

NOTE  IX. — ST.  Peter's  chair  at  rome. 

Lady  Morgan  has  given  great  offence  to  the 
Romanists,  and  not  without  cause,  as  I  admit,  by 
a  passage  in  her  'Italy,'  respecting  the  genuineness 
of  this  far-famed  relic  of  the  Vatican  church.  The 
matter  and  the  manner  of  the  attack  are  certainly 
far  from  admirable,  and,  as  it  seems  to  me,  are  bar- 
ren of  all  courtesy — dogmatical,  flippant,  false,  and 
wholly  uncalled  for.  The  short  narrative  given 
by  her  is,  in  substance,  that  the  French,  during 
their  occupation  of  the  holy  city,  forcibly  removed 
the  magnificent  bronze  casement  that  for  some 
centuries  has  enshrined  from  the  public  gaze  the 
venerable  chair,  brought  it  from  darkness  and  cob- 
webs into  full  light,  and  then  made  the  important 
discovery  that  it  bore  a  nearly  obliterated  Arabic 
inscription,  containing  the  well  known  Mahometan 
confession  of  faith — 'There  is  but  one  God,  and 
Mahomet  is  his  prophet !' — and,  moreover,  that  this 
chair  came  to  the  church  among  the  spoils  of  the 
crusaders,  when   the  times  were   too  ignorant  to 


114  ST.  Peter's  chair  at  rome. 

decypher  the  inscription — and  finally,  that  tlie 
truth  being  since  suppressed  by  the  church,  the 
chair  has  maintained  its  wonted  honours — the  peo- 
ple been  deceived — and  none  but  the  unhallowed 
and  audacious  at  Rome,  either  know  the  fact,  or 
venture  on  repeating  it ! 

In  this  account  we  find  a  discourteous  spirit;  it 
is  likewise  dogmatical,  because  it  contains  mere 
assertion,  without  even  the  feeblest  attempt  at 
argument,  or  authority — it  is  flippant  and  false,  as 
it  reposes  on  an  idle  tale,  so  extremely  silly  on  its 
face,  as  to  make  no  impression  on  any  reflecting 
mind;  and  lastly,  it  was  wholly  gratuitous,  and 
inconsequential,  as  this  relic,  perhaps,  of  all  others 
known  to  the  catholic  church,  is  the  least  ob- 
noxious to  censure,  is  among  the  best  authenti- 
cated, (at  least  as  being  a  chair  of  the  times  of  the 
Saint)  and  finally,  because  it  is  one,  Avhich  if  ever 
seen  by  Lady  Morgan,  could  have  been  but  super- 
ficially, and  which,  as  is  equally  probable,  had 
never  been  more  critically  examined  by  any  one 
with  whom  she  was  likely  to  have  confidentially 
communed.  How  strange  is  it  that  protestant  zeal, 
and  more  often  an  unmeaning  spirit  of  infidelity  as 
to  the  genuineness  of  ancient  remains,  prompts  us 
to  disregard  the  laws  of  evidence,  the  philosophy 
of  probabilities,  and  thus  recklessly  to  close  our 
mental  vision  against  the  light  of  truth  !  It  is, 
indeed,  an  undeniable  fact  that  the  Roman  church 
has  very  many  false  relics,  and  some  of  them  so 
shamefully  absurd,  as  to  raise,  in  thin  and  undis- 
criminating  minds,  doubts  as  to  them  all.     But  it 


ST.  Peter's  chair  at  rome.  115 

is  the  province  of  wisdom  to  have  caution  without 
scepticism,  Hberality  without  creduHty,  and  calm- 
ness in  the  examination  and  weighing  of  evidences 
in  every  separate  case,  without  confounding  them 
with  others  ;  and  this,  as  we  think,  has  not  been 
always  done  by  the  opponents  of  catholic  beliefs, 
and  certainly  not  by  Lady  Morgan,  in  the  present 
instance ;  for  she  has  evidently  applied  some 
extremely  vague  accounts  respecting  the  but  little 
esteemed,  and  only  vulgarly  so  called  chair  of  St. 
Peter  at  Venice,  to  the  greatly  valued  one  of  Rome, 
which  has  been  long  accredited  as  such  by  men  of 
distinguished  learning  and  piety,  and  the  authen- 
ticity of  which,  daring  very  many  centuries,  is  as 
well  maintained,  historically  and  traditionally  as 
that  of  any  one  of  the  various  relics  to  be  found  in 
most  of  the  English  cathedrals  and  castles,  and 
concerning  which  we  hear  of  few,  if  any  doubts, 
and  of  no  illiberal  and  ill-natured  attacks. 

The  chair,  in  question,  may  not  be  the  veritable 
one  in  which  St.  Peter  reposed;  but  this  has  never 
been  disproved,  and  it  has  tradition  to  that  effect 
on  its  side — it  may,  also,  not  be  a  Roman  curule 
chair,  but  it  is  certainly  not  a  Mahometan  monu- 
ment, nor  has  it  any  Arabic,  or  other  inscription 
that  proves  the  falsity  of  its  claims — it  may  never 
have  been  within  the  walls  of  the  Senator  Pudens' 
house,  nor  have  been  presented  by  him  to  the 
Saint,  but  it  is  still,  in  every  respect,  just  such  a 
chair  as  might  have  been  in  Rome  at  that  time, 
and  most  worthy  of  being  thus  presented  to  the 
distinguished  apostle,  if  he   were   ever  there   to 


116  ST.  Peter's  chair  at  rome. 

receive  it  at  the  hands  of  his  alleged  host  and  pro- 
selyte; and  it  differs,  moreover,  from  the  known 
curule  chairs,  only  as  a  variety  may  deviate  from 
one  of  its  species. 

Rome  has  numerous  relics  still  more  ancient 
than  the  era  imputed  to  this  chair,  and  most  of 
them  are  even  more  feebly  verified ;  and  yet  in 
regard  to  these,  antiquarians  presume  to  speak 
with  no  little  confidence  and  display  of  learning; 
whereas  this  chair  of  the  pope's,  to  a  protestant 
mind,  seems  to  be  at  once  severed  from  all  anti- 
quarian research,  and  is  pronounced,  by  mere 
'lookers-on  in  Venice,'  either  as  a  comparatively 
modern  fabric,  or  as  one  of  any  other  region,  or 
origin,  than  Roman  !  And  why  all  this? — merely, 
forsooth,  because  some  people  vaguely  and  idly 
imagine  that  if  St.  Peter  ever  sat  in  this  famous 
chair,  it  must  have  been  in  Rome,  if  in  Rome,  then 
as  Pope,  and  if  as  pope,  then  as  the  successor  of 
Christ  and  the  apostles,  and  if  such,  then  that  the 
catholic  church  is  the  one,  and  only  one  to  which 
was  said,  '  Tu  es  Petrus,  et  super  hanc  petram 
adificabo  Ecclesiarn^  et  tibi  dabo  claves  reg7ti  ccelo- 
rumP  Now,  the  whole  of  this,  as  it  seemeth  to 
me,  is  verily  such  a  congeries  of  non  sefjuiturs,  as 
Lady  Morgan,  and  all  who  so  think,  should  deeply 
blush  at.  Hath  not  Luther's  great  Reformation  a 
surer  basis,  a  more  enduring  fulcrum  to  rest  upon, 
than  the  negation  of  such  a  consecutive  series  of 
idle  inferences  ?  Would  even  the  clearest  proofs 
that  this  beautiful  relic  of  ancient  art,  with  its  fine 
embellishments  of  ivory  and  gold,  had  never  been 


ST.  Peter's  chair  at  rome.  117 

seen  by  the  great  'apostle  of  the  circumcision,'  and 
that  the  whole  tradition  was  a  'pious  fraud'  of  far 
more  recent  days,  abate  one  jot  or  tittle  the  claims 
of  popery,  whatever  they  may  be  ?  1  think  not. 
Does  protestantism  suffer  an  iota  of  loss,  on  the 
other  hand,  by  the  clearest  proofs,  not  only  that 
this  was  his  chair,  but  that  he  long  resided  at 
Rome,  and  there  suffered  martyrdom?  Clearly 
not, — all  this,  and  all  the  other  particulars  respect- 
ing the  chair,  might  well  be  conceded,  and  yet  St. 
Peter  never  have  been  pope  of  Rome,  never  have 
been  even  bishop  thereof;  and  finally,  never  have 
claimed,  nor  exercised  any  official  superiority  over 
the  other  apostles.  The  laboured  researches,  then, 
of  the  Romanists  to  prove  the  genuineness  of  this 
chair,  and  the  testy  jealousy  of  protestants  in 
respect  to  it,  and  particularly  as  to  the  point  of 
the  saint's  long  residence,  and  martyrdom  at 
Rome,  seem  to  me  to  be  what  lawyers  would 
denominate  an  immaterial  issue,  or  a  departure  in 
the  pleadings,  whenever  these  researches,  on  either 
side,  are  in  any  degree  connected  with  the  ques- 
tion— 'which  is  the  true  church?' 

Dr.  Wiseman,  of  the  Roman  University,  how- 
ever, in  his  short  but  eloquent  reply  to  Lady  Mor- 
gan's slander,  shows  himself  a  wiser  catholic  than 
many  of  his  brethren,  who  have  written  on  the 
claims  of  the  chair ;  for  his  brief  argument  is  not 
that  of  an  elaborate  antiquarian,  but  of  an  honest 
and  zealous  mind  in  pursuit  of  truth,  indignantly 
refuting,  in  a  common  sense  way,  a  fabulous  narra- 
II 


118  ST.  Peter's  chair  at  rome. 

live  of  an  accomplished  popular  writer,  who,  in 
connection  with  her  subject,  had  charged  the  whole 
body  of  the  catholic  clergy  with  perpetuating  a 
gross  decej)iion,  after  a  clear  discovery  of  the  spu- 
riousness  of  the  relic — a  charge  in  no  degree  sus- 
tained in  the  present  instance,  whatever  may  be 
the  fact  in  respect  to  some  others,  not  yet  repu- 
diated, though  it  be  scarce  possible,  at  least  for  a 
protestant  mind,  to  conceive  a  credulity  in  regard 
to  them  so  gross  and  benighted,  as  still  to  retain 
them  in  the  ccmon  of  their  relics! 

But,  to  revert  for  a  moment,  to  the  champions, 
and  to  the  repudiators  of  this  chair — what  do  the 
dissertations  of  Falei,  of  Bonnaid^  of  Wiseinati., 
and  others,  on  the  one  side,  and  of  Velcitms,  of 
Calvin,  of  Sebastian,  of  Ouen,  and  others  on  the 
other,  either  prove,  or  disprove?  Surely,  little 
more  than  the  great  antiquity  of  the  chair  in  ques- 
tion— its  long  connection  with  the  name  of  St. 
Peter — that  in  the  priuiitive  church  it  was  custo- 
mary for  teachers  of  distinction  to  occupy,  by  way 
of  eminence,  a  secies — cathedra— throne  or  chair^ 
and  which,  in  after  times,  was  often  carefully  pre- 
served as  an  interesting  relic — that  Eusebius  men- 
tions the  chair  of  St.  James,  as  being  extant  in  his 
time — that  St.  Mark''s  chair  was  long  preserved 
with  a  like  veneration  at  Alexandria — that  Tertul- 
han  speaks  in  still  more  general  terms,  of  the  'very 
chairs  of  the  apostles  as  yet  in  their  places' — that 
St.  Optatus,  in  the  fourth  century,  alluded  to  the 
chair  of  St.  Peter,  as  one  that  Macrobius  of  Rome 
had    never    occupied — that    Ennodius   of  Pavia, 


ST.  Peter's  chair  at  rome.  119 

early  in  the  sixth  centuiy,  wiien  lamenting  the 
state  of  the  church,  adverts  to  the  fact  that  the 
chair  is  now  despised,  and  afterwards  speaks  of 
the  portable  chair  of  the  apostle's  confession  (or 
tomb,) — all  of  which  combined  would  seem  to 
bring  this  chair  somewhat  authentically  as  imputed 
to  St.  Peter,  as  far  back  as  to  a.  d.  503 — but  alas ! 
here  all  tradition^  even,  ends.  Yet,  as  the  matter 
thus  far  stands,  the  claims  of  the  chair  are  fully 
redeemed  from  the  aspersions  cast  upon  it  by  Lady 
Morgan  and  others.  Now,  though  in  the  second 
place,  her  ladyship,  and  other  cognate  writers 
have  sufficiently  established  that  the  Romanists 
have  failed  in  obtaining  certain  proof  that  this 
chair  ever  was  St.  Peter's,  it  ought  to  be  remem- 
bered that  the  Romanists  themselves  have  spared 
these  very  writers  the  necessity  of  establishing  this 
fact — since  all  Catholics  have  unhesitatingly  ad- 
mitted the  absence  of  any  such  clear  proof  that  it 
ever  was  his;  and  have  only  reposed  on  the  proba- 
bilities which  they  deduced  from  the  facts  I  have 
just  stated. 

The  whole  subject  is,  perhaps,  of  little  moment, 
in  the  abstract;  and  would  not  have  been  dwelt  on, 
had  not  many  Catholics,  on  the  one  hand,  sup- 
posed that  its  genuineness  forms  an  important  link 
in  the  chain  of  their  proofs  of  apostolic  supremacy! 
and  had  not  Protestants,  on  the  other,  been  weak 
enough  to  regard  it  somewhat  in  the  same  light! 
Entertaining,  as  I  do,  quite  a  ditferent  opinion,  and 
believing  that  neither  church  would  gain  or  lose 
by  the  decision  of  the  controversy  cither  way,  I  am 


120  WAS    ST.    PETER    EVER    AT    ROME? 

disposed  to  treat  this  relic  as  I  would  those  of  Shaks- 
peare  at  Stratford — those  of  the  redoubtable  Giiy, 
at  Warwick  castle — those  of  Luther,  of  Wickliff, 
of  some  of  the  early  kings  of  England,  or  of  Scot- 
land— or,  in  fine,  any  other  remains  of  unrecorded 
times,  that  may  have  come  down  to  us  attended  by 
little  of  clear  proof — but  which  are  still  sustained 
by  a  long  tradition,  and  by  those  probabilities 
which  arise  out  of  the  laws  of  circumstantial  evi- 
dence judiciously  applied.  And,  with  this,  I  now 
take  my  leave  of  the  long  venerated  chair  en- 
sconced in  the  Tribune  of  St.  Peter's  basilika  at 
Rome. 


NOTE    X. WAS    ST.    PETER    EVER   AT   ROME  ? 

This  question  is  gravely  put  by  many,  and 
variously  answered,  as  if  it  were  one  on  which 
the  fate  of  popery  or  of  protestantism  is  to  be 
ultimately  decided ! 

Yes,  say  the  catholics — St.  Peter  first  arrived 
there  in  the  second  year  of  the  Emperor  Claudius, 
and  resided  in  the  house  of  the  Senator  Pudens 
for  seven  years,  the  saint  having  previously  con- 
verted him  to  the  new  faith,  together  with  his 
two  daughters,  Pudentiana  and  Prassade,  and  his 
two  sons,  Novatus  and  Timothy.  Inconsequence 
of  an  edict  against  the  Jews,  the  saint  retired  from 
Rome,  leaving  with  his  host  a  portrait  of  our 
Saviour,  now  preserved  in  the  church  of  St. 
Prassade,  which  was  erected  in  honour  of  the 
senator's  daughter!     During  St.   Peter's  absence 


WAS    ST.    PETER    EVER    AT    ROME  ?  121 

from  the  imperial  city,  he  assisted  St.  Mark  in 
the  preparation  of  his  gospel,  but  returned,  with 
St.  Paul  to  Rome,  about  the  thirty-second  year 
after  the  crucifixion,  and  again  took  up  his  resi- 
dence with  the  senator,  who  then  presented  to 
him  the  splendid  chair  of  ivory  and  gold,  (the 
subject  of  my  previous  note,)  and  which  is  now 
preserved  in  the  Tribune  of  St.  Peter's  church, 
enshrined  in  a  magnificent  bronze  case,  and  is 
annually  exhibited,  on  the  eighteenth  of  January, 
to  the  eager  gaze  of  an  admiring  multitude ! 

The  Romanists  further  say  that  in  the  year 
164,  the  church  of  St.  Pudentiana  was  erected 
in  honour  of  the  Senator  Pudens'  other  daughter, 
on  the  very  spot  where  his  house  had  stood,  and 
that  the  chapel  to  the  right  of  the  choir,  now 
contains  the  altar  on  which  St.  Peter  used  to 
celebrate  the  mass — some  of  the  books  say,  'dove 
credesi  che  S.  Pietro  celebrava  la  massa.'  This 
church  also  contains  the  well  in  which  Saint 
Pudentiana  cast  the  blood  of  three  thousand  mar- 
tyrs, whose  remains  are  there  deposited,  and  to 
which  a  daily  visit  through  life,  entitles  those 
making  it  to  an  indulgence  of  three  thousand 
years,  from  the  pains  of  purgatory,  and  a  remis- 
sion of  a  moiety  of  their  sins ! 

According  to  these  Roman  authorities,  St.  Peter 
resided  in  Rome  twenty-five  years,  enduring  many 
alternations  of  prosperity  and  adversity.  He  was 
confined  in  the  Tullian,or  Mamertine  prison,  which 
still  remains,  though  erected  by  Ancus  Martins; 
and  the  pillar  to  which  the  saint  was  fastened,  as 
11* 


122  WAS    ST.    PETER   EVER   AT   ROME? 

also  the  small  spring  or  well  of  water  with  which 
he  was  miraculously  supplied  for  the  baptism  of 
the  two  gaolers,  and  his  forty-seven  companions 
are  now  likewise  to  be  seen ! 

It  is  farther  asserted  that  St.  Peter  suffered 
martyrdom  by  crucifixion,  a.  d.  67 — in  the  twelfth 
year  of  the  Emperor  Nero,  on  the  Janiculum,  now 
called  the  Golden  Hill,  or  Montorio,  in  sacred  allu- 
sion, as  some  say,  to  the  event — or,  more  probably'', 
as  others  supposed,  from  the  yellow  or  gold-like 
sand  of  the  hill.  Near  the  place  of  the  crucifixion, 
Constantine  the  Great  erected  the  church  of  S. 
Pietro  in  Mofitrorio ;  and  on  the  precise  s})ot 
was  erected  by  Ferdinand  IV.  of  Spain,  a  small 
temple  of  singular  beauty,  consisting  of  a  rotunda 
sustained  by  sixteen  doric  columns,  after  the  de- 
sign of  Bramante,  which  is  still  in  perfect  pre- 
servation. Although  the  precise  spot  of  the  saint's 
crucifixion  has  been  questioned  by  some  catholics, 
(maugre  the  erection  of  the  aforesaid  church  and 
temple,)  yet  they  all  agree  that  it  certainly  took 
place  near  the  Vatican,  and  consequently  near 
to  where  tradition  has  assigned  it,  and  where 
Constantine  founded  the  church,  and  where  Fer- 
dinand established  the  temple,  now  so  much  ad- 
mired by  travellers. 

The  place  of  the  saint's  i7iierme?it,  according 
to  Eusebius,  has  always  been  pointed  out  by  tradi- 
tion, as  on  the  Vatican  hill;  and  further  accounts 
state  it  to  have  been  in  a  cemetery,  over  which 
Pope  Anaclctus,  early  in  the  second  century, 
erected  a  chapel,   and   enclosed    the    body   in   a 


WAS    ST.    PETER   EVER   AT    ROME  ?  123 

marble  urn, — that  this  chapel  and  urn  were  super- 
seded by  the  old,  and  subsequently  by  the  present 
church,  or  rather  hasilika  of  St.  Peter,  (as  being  - 
a  sacred  temple  erected  in  honour  of  a  martyr) 
and  finally,  that  the  remains,  then  hermetically 
enshrined  in  brass  and  copper,  have  never  since 
been  seen,  but  the  holy  spot  is  beneath  the  present 
high  altar,  adjoining  to  which  is  the  Confessional 
of  the  Shrine,  the  descent  to  which  is  by  a  double 
flight  of  steps,  surrounded  by  more  than  a  hundred 
lamps,  burning  in  perpetual  honour  of  the  sacred 
spot. 

St.  Peter,  according  to  Eusebius,  went  to  Rome 
to  oppose  the  pernicious  tenets  of  Simon  Magus, 
whose  preaching  is  said  greatly  to  have  pleased 
Nero,  especially  after  it  had  been  given  out  that 
Magus  would  fly  to  heaven  in  the  emperor's  pre- 
sence; and  he  was  seen  to  fly  assisted  by  demons, 
until  St.  Peter  brought  him  so  rapidly  to  the  earth 
as  to  fracture  both  his  legs,  in  consequence  of 
which  he  soon  after  died !  In  addition  to  all  these 
proofs  of  St.  Peter's  residence  at  Rome,  the  Catho- 
lics also  refer  to  the  saints'  miraculous  liberation  of 
Rome  from  the  attack  and  fury  of  Attila — to  the 
statue  of  the  saint  now  in  the  Vatican  Basilika, 
which  was  made  by  the  order  of  St.  Leo,  out  of 
the  bronze  statue  of  Jupiter  Capitolinus — to  the 
marble  statue  of  St.  Peter,  formerly  on  the  outside 
of  the  old  churcli^  and  now  to  be  seen  in  the  Grotte 
Vaticane — to  the  church  of  St.  Pietro  in  Vi?icoli, 
which  was  erected  by  Eudoxia,  in  the  year  442, 
for  the  preservation  of  the  chains  that  bound  him 


124  WAS    ST.    PETER    EVER    AT    ROME? 

when  in  prison  at  Jerusalem!  These  manacles 
were  sent  from  the  holy  city  of  Judea,  by  Eudocia 
to  her  daughter  Eudoxia,  wife  of  the  emperor 
Valentinian,  and  shortly  after  their  arrival  at  Rome, 
they  miraculously  associated  themselves  with  the 
chain  that  had  bound  St.  Paul  at  Rome! 

Catholics  still  further  refer,  in  proof  of  their 
point,  to  the  relics  of  St.  Peter,  now  preserved  at 
Rome,  in  the  church  of  St.  Cecilia,  viz  :  two  of  his 
teeth,  and  seven  rings  of  the  chain  by  which  he 
had  been  bound!  The  foregoing,  with  many 
others  that  might  have  been  mentioned,  are  the 
materials  that  compose  the  argument  of  the  Ro- 
manists in  favour  of  St.  Peter's  residence  at  Rome, 
his  persecutions  there  in  establishing  the  new 
faith,  his  martyrdom  there — and  finally,  his  claims 
to  be  regarded  as  the  founder  of  the  church,  the 
first  Pope,  and  as  the  rock  on  which  Christ  himself 
promised  that  his  church  should  be  built. 

The  Protestants,  on  the  other  hand,  have  either 
wholly  denied  his  presence  in  the  eternal  city — or 
his  alleged  extended  residence  tiiere,  and  establish- 
ment by  him  there  of  the  church ;  or  lastly,  they 
contend  that  if  all  the  facts  stated  by  Catholics  be 
true,  still,  that  they  confer  no  official  superiority 
whatever  of  this  saint  over  St.  Paul,  or  over  any 
other  of  the  apostles — that  they  confer  no  claims 
beyond  that  of  mere  bishop,  and  in  no  way  sustain 
the  Romish  doctrine  of  papal  power,  even  to  any 
limited  extent  of  ecclesiastical  authority  over  other 
bishops.  Had  Protestants  seen  fit  to  adhere  to 
this  last  simple  view  of  the  matter,  they  would 


WAS    ST.    PETER    EVER    AT    ROME  ?  125 

easily  have  perceived  where  the  substantial  truth 
of  the  controversy  was  really  to  be  found  ;  they 
would  readily  have  separated  the  idle  legends  from 
plausible  traditions,  and  from  the  credible  histories 
of  early  times;  and,  in  so  doing,  would  unhesi- 
tatingly have  admitted  that  the  weight  of  evidence 
deduced  from  both,  sufficiently  established  the  fact 
that  Sai7it  Pete?-  loas  at  Rome  on  two  several  occa- 
sions, and  was  there  crucified  during  the  first  perse- 
cution of  the  church,  under  Nero.  This  being 
admitted,  would,  as  I  apprehend,  in  no  degree 
have  weakened  the  lawfulness  and  necessity  of 
the  Reformation,  nor  the  justice  of  the  denial  to 
the  Pope  of  Rome  of  every  particular  in  which  the 
two  churches  differ. 

But,  without  my  now,  or  at  any  time,  entering 
into  such  considerations,  or  in  any  way  urging  the 
comparative  merits  of  either  church,  what  have 
the  Protestants  been  accustomed  to  urge,  in  reply 
to  the  naked  fact  of  St.  Peter's  visit,  or  extended 
residence  in  Rome?  They  have  carped  much, 
though  unnecessarily  and  yet  with  truth,  at  the 
idle  fictions  respecting  some  of  the  relics — as  the 
chains,  and  the  links  of  chains  that  bound  St.  Peter, 
and  which  ran,  'in  osculation  sweet,'  to  associate 
with  those  of  St.  Paul ! — the  pillar  to  which  he 
had  been  manacled  ! — the  miraculous  springing  np 
of  the  water  in  the  TuUian  prison ! — the  impres- 
sion made  of  his  likeness  in  the  solid  stone,  now 
exhibited  on  the  side  wall,  as  you  descend  the 
prison  steps  ! — the  Saint's  two  teeth,  so  carefully 
preserved  in  the  church  of  St.   Cecilia ! — the  le- 


126  WAS    ST.    PETER    EVER    AT    ROME  ? 

gend  of  Simon  Magus  ! — and  such  like  fancies,  all 
of  which  might  well  be  dismissed  with  mixed  pity 
and  surprise  that,  in  a  church  so  full  of  piety, 
zeal,  learning,  and  worldly  tact;  in  days,  too,  of 
so  much  enlightenment  as  the  present,  the  merest 
figments  of  primitive  ignorance  and  superstition, 
should  still  be  retained !  Why  not  establish  a 
canon  of  relics? — why  not  winnow  the  pure  grain 
from  the  chaff;  and,  if  there  be  genuine  and 
indubitable  relics,  why  not  repose  upon  them 
exclusively,  and  give  the  rest  to  oblivion,  and 
once  more,  to  the  darkness  in  which  they  may 
have  originated? 

If,  however,  our  Catholic  brethren  will  not  do 
this ;  if  they  will  persist  in  marring  the  many 
real  and  substantial  beauties  and  merits  of  their 
mother  church,  Protestants  surely  have  no  occa- 
sion, on  their  part,  to  disregard  both  history  and 
tradition  in  respect  to  St.  Peter,  from  any  well 
grounded  apprehension  that  legends  or  relics  can, 
in  any  way,  affect  the  argument  for  or  against  the 
views  of  Catholics  and  of  Protestants — the  ques- 
tion would  still  remain,  and  be  a  mere  point  of 
fact,  'Was  St.  Peter  ever  at  Rome?'  No!  say 
many  Protestants,  for  such  a  fact  would  have  been 
somewhere  recorded,  or  alluded  to,  in  the  acts  of 
the  apostles,  in  the  gospels,  in  the  epistles  ;  where- 
as, not  a  word  of  the  kind  is  any  where  to  be 
found  in  them ! 

The  saint's  residence  in  Rome  for  twenty-five 
years,  as  stated  by  Eusebius,  is,  say  they,  an  inter- 
polation, not  to  be  found  in  various  editions  of  his 


WAS    ST.    PETER    EVER    AT    ROME  ?  127 

work  that  have  been  published  out  of  Rome  !  and 
Origen,  who  Uved  considerably  before  Eusebius, 
refers  St.  Peter's  visit  to  the  close  of  his  life: 
which,  according  to  these  protestant  arguers, 
shows  such  a  vague  and  contradictory  account  of 
the  matter,  as  to  cast  the  whole  into  doubt !  His 
first  visit,  said  to  commence  with  the  second  year 
of  Claudius,  and  nine  years  after  the  crucifixion, 
could  not  have  endured  for  seven  years;  nor  could 
his  second  visit  have  lasted  eighteen  years  ;  nor 
could  the  first  have  been  eighteen,  and  the  second 
seven  years,  consistently  with  the  narrative  con- 
tained in  the  acts  of  the  apostles? 

And  many  over  zealous  Protestants  further 
think  that  had  St.  Peter  been  at  Rome,  at  any 
time  during  which  St.  Paul  wrote  from  that  city, 
or  to  the  Romans,  he  must  have  made  some  men- 
tion of  his  co-Iaboraior,  which  he  does  not;  and 
hence,  if  he  were  not  there  during  either  of  these 
times,  it  is  difficult  to  find  any  such  periods 
between  the  crucifixion  of  our  Saviour,  and  the 
alleged  date  of  Si.  Peter's  martyrdom,  since  it 
would  require  even  more  than  the  whole  of  this 
intervening  period  to  satisfy  the  residence  claimed 
for  him  at  Rome,  by  those  who  rely  on  the  account 
of  Eusebius,  and  others. 

Now,  1  confess,  these  views  are  to  me  quite  suf- 
ficient to  disprove  the  alleged  extent  of  St.  Peter's 
residence  during  the  two  combined  visits ;  and 
many  catholics  have  had  the  candour  to  abandon 
that  altogether.  But  still,  the  extent  of  the  resi- 
dence contended  for  may  well  be  erroneous,  and 


128  WAS    ST.    PETER    EVER    AT    ROME  ? 

the  substance  of  the  controversy  be  yet  entitled  to 
an  affirmative  answer. 

Dr.  Campbell,  in  his  brief  notice  of  this  ques- 
tion, has  involved  himself,  as  it  seems  to  me,  in  at 
least  an  apparent  contradiction,  when  he  asserts 
that  St.  Peter's  ever  being  at  Rome  rests  solely  on 
tradition^  and  such  a  tradition  as  is  very  suspi- 
cious, accompanied  as  it  is  by  such  a  number  of 
legendary  stories,  as  are  totally  unworthy  of  regard ; 
and  because  the  scriptures,  and  all  of  the  apostolic 
fathers  are  entirely  silent  on  the  subject; — and  yet 
he  adds  that  Clement  of  Rome,  in  the  second  cen- 
tury, mentions  Peter's  martyrdom  as  a  known  fact, 
without  specifying,  however,  the  place,  but  which, 
says  the  Doctor,  'I  am  inclined  to  think  must  have 
been  at  Rome,  both  because  it  is  agreeable  to  the 
unanimous  voice  of  antiquity,  and  because  the 
sufferings  of  so  great  an  apostle  could  not  fail  to 
,  be  a  matter  of  such  notoriety  in  the  church,  as  to 
preclude  the  possibility  of  an  imposition  in  regard 
to  the  place.'*  And  he  afterwards  states  that  the 
silence  of  scripture  on  the  subject  can  only  be 
reconciled  by  admitting  that  St.  Peter's  journey  to 
Rome  was  not  only  posterior  to  the  historical  period 
embraced  by  the  acts  of  the  apostles,  but  to  that 
embraced  by  Paul's  epistles. 

Now,  if  Doctor  Campbell's  concessions  be  taken, 
how  do  they  consist  with  his  allegation  that  the 
fact  rests  exclusively  on  a  tradition,  itself  entitled 
to  little  weight  because  associated  with  legendary 

*EccIe.  Hist.  p.  191. 


WAS    ST.    PETER    EVER    AT    ROME  ?  129 

Stories?  for,  if  the  fact  be  conceded,  it  cannot  be 
impaired   by  the   circumstance   of  its  connection 
with  mere  tradition  and  legends  ;  but,  on  his  own 
showing,  it  seems  to  repose  on  something  further 
than  tradition  and  idle  stories,  else  the  concession 
would  not  have  been  made.     As  the  matter,  how- 
ever, stands  upon  the  view  thus  taken  of  it  by  Dr. 
Campbell,  it  is,  as  it  seems  to  me,  all  that  the  ques- 
tion really  demands,  unless,  indeed,  the  point  be  at 
the  same  time  connected  with  such  a  length  of  resi- 
dence as  would  of  itself  make  St.  Peter  the  first 
propagator  of  Christianity,  and  the  first  source  of 
all  christian  authority,  at  Rome.     But  this  has  at 
no  time  been  asserted  by  the  Romanists,  and  need 
not  have  been,  if  their  previous  opinion  be  also 
correct,  that  St.  Peter's  presidency  in  the  sacred 
college  of  the  apostles,  conferred  on  him  by  Christ, 
necessarily  conferred  on  him  an  official  superiority 
over  the  other  apostles,  which,  however,  is  contra- 
dicted  by  the   admitted   fact   that   he    sometimes 
acted  in  subordination  to  them,  and  they,  in  turn, 
seem  never  to  have  recognized  any  such  official 
supremacy. 

Nor  can  I  well  perceive  how  a  tradition  as  to 
his  martyrdom  at  Rome,  is  to  be  entitled  to  more 
credit,  than  a  like  tradition  of  his  two  visits — of 
his  long  residence  with  the  Senator  Pudens — or  of 
such  other  matters  as  are  not  manifestly  legendary. 
It  would  seem,  then,  to  be  more  consectaneous 
with  the  laws  of  evidence  that  we  should  care- 
fully separate  all  that  tends  to  establish  the  naked 
fact  of  St.  Peter's  ever  having  been  at  Rome  at  all, 
12 


130  WAS    ST.    PETER    EVER    AT    ROME  ? 

from  such  considerations  as  go  merely  to  the  point 
of  the  authority  claimed  by  the  Roman  church 
to  have  been  exercised  by  him — questions  essen- 
tially distinct,  but  which  the  prejudice  of  party, 
or  the  intemperance  of  religious  zeal,  has  too 
often  confounded.  St.  Peter  may  have  been  often 
at  Rome — may  have  been  there  martyred — may 
have  received  the  far-famed  chair  from  Pudens, 
his  early  convert — may  have  had  there  many 
churches  and  other  monuments  erected  to  his 
illustrious  memory — the  relics  of  him,  moreover, 
may  all  be  genuine,  and  his  remains  may  now  be 
enshrined  in  the  venerable  Vatican  church — nay, 
he  may  even  have  the  honour  accorded  to  him  of 
being  the  sole  founder  at  Rome  of  the  christian 
church,  and  take  precedence  therein  of  the  Tuscan 
Linus,  as  bishop,  and  yet  never  have  been  Pope  of 
Rome,  or  father  over  all  churches  in  Christendom  ; 
but  have  been  merely,  and  at  most,  the  first  bishop 
of  Rome,  without  the  least  authority  beyond  the 
original  limits  of  that  bishopric  ! 

It  is  likewise  to  be  remembered  that  St.  Peter 
was  the  founder,  also,  of  the  church  at  Antioch, 
which  being  the^r*^  church  ever  established  by 
him,  the  popedom,  by  rights,  should  have  com- 
menced there,  rather  than  at  Rome,  Certain  it 
is,  that  St.  Paul,  writing  from  Rome  to  the  Galla- 
tians,  denominates  St.  Peter  the  apostle  of  the 
circumcision,  and  himself  the  apostle  of  the  un- 
circumcision ;  and  further  states  that  when  Peter 
was  come  to  Antioch,  he  (St.  Paul)  'withstood 
him   to   the   face,  because   he  (Peter)  was   to  be 


WAS    ST.    PETER    EVER    AT    ROME  ?  131 

blamed !'  And,  a  short  time  before  his  death,  in 
writing  to  Timothy  from  Rome,  the  same  apostle 
says  that  'Eubulus  and  Pudens,  and  Linus,  and 
Claudia  greet  thee,  and  all  the  brethren.'  Now, 
as  to  this  Linus,  if  he  ever  were  pope,  it  must 
have  been  either  before  or  after  St.  Peter's  resi- 
dence there,  which,  also,  must  have  been  before 
Paul's  death  ;  and  yet  his  name  is  not  mentioned 
with  that  respect  for  precedency,  which  must  have 
been  accorded  to  him,  had  Linus  as  the  bishop 
of  Rome,  been  pope  over  all  christian  churches! 
It  is  likewise  certain  that  Irenasus,  near  the 
close  of  the  second  century,  makes  no  mention 
of  St.  Peter,  as  ever  being  even  bishop  of  Rome, 
but  speaks  of  Linus  as  the  first  bishop,  and  of 
Anacletus  as  the  second.  And  who  was  Irenasus? 
Is  not  his  authority  as  high  as  any  that  can  be 
adduced?  He  was  the  pupil  of  Polycarp,  a  dis- 
ciple of  the  apostle  John,  so  that  being  but  a 
single  remove  from  the  age  of  St.  Peter,  and 
being,  moreover,  as  eminent  for  his  learning,  as 
he  was  for  piety,  must  have  been  familiar  with, 
the  primitive  organization  of  the  church.  Now 
this  Irenasus,  when  bishop  of  Lyons,  wrote  his 
celebrated  work  against  tlie  'Heretics'  of  those 
days  ;  and,  in  the  third  chapter  of  the  third  book 
of  his  work,  he  is  so  explicit  on  the  subject  of 
what  is  called  apostolic  succession,  that  all  con- 
troversy about  it  would  seem  to  be  idle,  especially 
as  he  is  contradicted  by  no  contemporaneous  or 
antecedent  authority,  or  by  none,  whatever,  for 
several    centuries   after.      The   substance   of    his 


132  WAS    ST.    PETER    EVER    AT    ROME  ? 

remarks  on  this  point  is  that — the  apostles  founded 
churches,   and    ordained    bishops   in    them — that 
Peter  and  Paul  founded  the  church  at  Rome,  and 
ordained  Linus  to  the  charge  of  governing  it — 
that  Polycarp  was  ordained  bishop  of  the  church 
in  Smyrna,  and  that  he  and  Irenasus  were  inti- 
mately acquainted — that  a  minute  enumeration  of 
the  successions  in  all  of  the  churches  would  be 
unnecessary  and  tedious,  but  that  he  would  select 
the  succession  of  the  one  founded  at  Rome,  as 
being  eminent  and  well  known,  and  that  the  suc- 
cession of  bishops,  and  the  true  faith  as  handed 
down  from  the  time  of  the  apostles  to  his  own 
day  (a  little  more  than  one  hundred  years  only) 
was   so  perfectly  familiar   to   him,  that  its   mere 
statement   would    be   sufficient   to   repel   all    idle 
conceits,  and  all  perverse  blindness  of  those  op- 
posed to  truth — that  Linus  was  the  first  bishop 
of  Rome,   then  came  Anacletus — the  third   from 
the  apostles  was  Clement,  who  saw  the  apostles 
themselves  and  conversed  with  them — and,  after 
enumerating    several    others   in    succession    after 
Clement,  he  says,  Sextus  was  ordained  the  si3;t/i 
from  the  apostles ;  and,  finally,  coming  to  Eleu- 
therus,   he   says,   'he   is   now  in   the   episcopate, 
being  the  twelfth  in  succession  from  the  apostles.' 
Irenasus  then  speaks  of  the  church  at  Smyrna,  of 
Polycarp  as  its  first  bishop,  and  says  that  as  such 
he  had  always  taught  what  he  had  learned  from 
the   apostles,    and    that   to    these    things   all    the 
churches  of  Asia,  and  all  the  bishops  from  Poly- 
carp till  the  time  of  his  writing,  gave  testimony. 


WAS    ST.    PETER    EVER    AT    ROME  ?  133 

After  a  statement  so  pointed  and  clear,  it  would 
seem  that  the  door  ought  to  be  closed  as  to  the 
question  who  was  first  bishop  of  Rome — and 
whether  St.  Peter  was  ever  pope,  or  even  bishop 
of  Rome. 

The  matter  now  in  controversy,  both  as  to  the 
fact  of  St.  Peter's  visits  to  Rome,  and  the  diverse 
inferences  deduced  from  them  by  catholics  and 
protestants,  seems  to  have  arisen  long  posterior 
to  the  age  of  Irenssus, — for  it  is  not  until  the 
commencement  of  the  fifth  century  that  we  per- 
ceive the  first  buddings  of  the  since  long  vexed 
question,  when  Innocent  I.  conceived  the  thought 
of  claiming  for  the  episcopal  see  of  Rome  a  supe- 
riority over  other  sees,  in  virtue  of  St.  Peter''s 
foundci'ship,  which  as  he  tliought  was  entitled 
to  precedence  over  Antioch,  and  consequently  all 
others,  because  St.  Peter  fully  accomplished  at 
Rome,  what  he  had  but  commenced  at  Antioch  ! 

As  to  the  title  oi  pope,  it  is  an  undeniable  fact 
it  was  applied  to  bishops  of  other  sees  as  well  as 
that  of  Rome,  and  tliis  too,  long  before  papal 
supremacy  was  at  all  thought  of  Now,  although 
the  word  pope,  papa,  (probably  from  pater  patrmii) 
does,  ex  vi  termini,  import  chief,  or  head— /aMe;- 
of  fathers,  yet  this  does  not  import  bishop  of 
bishops — he  may  well  have  been  father  over  all 
within  the  limits  of  his  diocess,  Avithout  claiming 
to  exercise  any  extra  territorial  paternity  or  juris- 
diction. And  so  the  historical  fact  is — for  the 
bishop  of  Rome,  at  first,  claimed  no  superiority 
or  precedence,  this  having  arisen  in  after  times, 
12* 


134  WAS    ST.    PETER   EVER   AT   ROME  ? 

not  merely  in  respect  to  the  see  of  Rome,  but  as 
to  several  others,  they  being  all  classed  in  the 
scale  of  precedence,  more  in  reference  to  the  then 
existing  temporal  power,  and  other  influences  of 
each,  than  to  any  spiritual  considerations  what- 
ever;— and  hence  it  was  that  the  bishop  of 
Rome,  the  first  of  cities  in  the  empire,  naturally 
took  precedence  of  the  bishop  of  Constantinople, 
which  city  was  called  '■Nev)  Rome;''  and,  in  like 
manner,  Alexandria  took  precedence  of  even  An- 
tioch,  the  former  being  the  superior  city  in  every 
temporal  respect.  Had  the  superiority  been  ac- 
corded to  'o/g?  Rome,''  because  St.  Peter  was  con- 
sidered the  first  pope,  the  council  of  Chalcedon, 
in  the  year  451,  would  never  for  a  moment  have 
thought  of  yielding  the  precedence  to  Rome  over 
Constantinople,  ^because  it  was  the  imperial  citi/,'' 
which  was  the  language  used  on  the  occasion  :  nor 
could  the  pope,  in  after  times,  have  feared  that  the 
bishoprick  of  Constantinople  'scarce  named  in 
former  ages,  might  with  little  ceremony^  he  raised 
above  the  Roman  see,''  because  her  temporal  power 
seemed  to  be  so  fast  gaining  the  ascendancy  over 
that  of  the  Eternal  City. 

On  the  whole,  then,  the  controversy  respecting 
St.  Peter's  residence  at  Rome,  seems  to  have  been 
rather  an  unmeaning  one,  07i  both  sides.  The  fact 
is  clearly  with  the  catholics — but  the  inferences 
of  supposed  importance,  are,  as  clearly,  with  the 
protestants.  The  history  of  the  Roman  church 
since  the  apostolic  age,  is  at  this  time,  too  well 
understood  to  cause  just  grounds  of  apprehension 


WAS    ST.    PETER    EVER    AT    ROME  ?  135 

for  the  stability  of  protestant,  or  of  catholic  claims  : 
for  such  considerations  as  the  long  or  short  resi- 
dence  of  St.  Peter  in  the  imperial  city — the  pre- 
sence of  his  visible  apostolic  chair  within  the  walls 
of  the  Vatican — the  careful  preservation  at  Rome 
of  his  martyred  remains — or  finally,  from  all  the 
combined  honours,  so  justly  accorded  by  monu- 
ments, statues,  and  churches,  to  the  memory  of 
this  chief  of  the  apostles,  and  most  venerated 
among  saints — all  such  matters,  as  it  seems  to 
me,  have  but  a  feeble  bearing  on  any  question, 
either  of  church  authority,  or  of  church  organiza- 
tion, and  have  been  dwelt  on,  thus  long  in  the 
present  note,  mainly  to  show  how  unnecessarily 
the  learned  and  pious  have,  for  ages,  agitated 
their  minds  with  immaterial  facts,  ingeniously 
blended  with  important  inferences,  with  which, 
in  truth,  they  have  but  an  impotent  connection! 
Both  the  great  parties,  in  such  controversies, 
give  to  alleged  facts  an  unmerited  and  factitious 
importance,  instead  of  calmly  inquiring,  first  as  to 
their  value,  if  true ;  and  secondly,  the  proofs  ac- 
cording to  the  philosophy  of  evidence  on  which 
they  repose.  Had  these  distinct  objects  been  ever 
kept  in  view,  the  result,  as  I  think,  must  have 
been  that,  in  a  theological  point  of  view,  the  facts 
are  of  very  minor  importance,  and  that  the  catho- 
lics, though  they  have  sufficiently  established  the 
verity  of  their  principal  facts,  have  wholly  failed 
in  many  collateral  matters,  and  in  all  of  the  infe- 
rences on  which  they  have  so  zealously  insisted. 


136    DR.  WATSON  AND  THE  STUART  PAPERS. 
NOTE  XI. DR.  WATSON  AND  THE  STUART  PAPERS. 

I  HAVE  long  been  curious   to  know,  but  have 
never  yet  been  able  to  ascertain,  what  became  of 
the  Stuart  Papers,  discovered    by  Dr.  Watson  at 
Rome,  some  twenty  or  more  years  ago.     It  is  well 
known  that  this  clever  Scotch  gentleman  went  to 
Italy  on  a  pilgrimage  in  search  of  valuable  histori- 
cal, political,  and  literary  relics  of  the   house  of 
Stuart,  then  said  to  be  at  Rome  in  the  hands  of 
individuals,  who  set  but  little  store  by  them;  and 
that  they  were  rescued  by  him  from  their  oblivion, 
but  in  a  strange  and  most  despotic  manner,  were 
wrested  from  him  !     It  is  said  that   Dr.  Watson, 
after  a  toilsome  search,  discovered  that  the  execu- 
tor of  the  Cardinal  of  York — or,  if  legitimacy  be 
rigidly  insisted  on,  then  of  Henry  IX.  still  retained 
a  very  large  collection  of  precious  manuscripts,  so 
little  prized,  however,  by  the  executor,  as  to  be 
found  in  a  dusty  and  leaky  garret,  and  which  Dr. 
Watson  purchased  of  him  for  no  considerable  sum, 
and  removed  them  to  his  own  apartments.     These 
papers,  when  assorted,  were  found   to  consist  of 
nearly  half  a  million  of  distinct  articles,  more  than 
one  half  of  which  were  said  to  be  extremely  inte- 
resting and  curious,  forming  in  themselves  mate- 
rials for  many  volumes  of  great  novelty.     Among 
these  remains,  tlie  accumulation  of  nearly  a  cen- 
tury, were  letters  from  many  crowned  heads,  from 
statesmen,   noblemen,   and   scholars   of  the   day. 
There  were  letters  of  Pope,  of  Swift,  of  Boling- 
broke,    and    others,     together    with    documents, 


DR.    WATSON    AND    THE    STUART    PAPERS.  1-37 

which,  had  they  come  to  hght  shortly  after  they 
were  penned,  would  have  occasioned  much  excite- 
ment, and  possibly  important  results.  In  them 
might  be  found  the  various  schemes  devised  for 
the  restoration  of  the  exiled  royal  house  of  Stuart — 
the  views  of  its  partisans,  the  hopes,  fears,  and 
anticipated  plans  of  its  enemies — a  revelation  of 
names  true  to  their  king,  but  whom,  from  policy 
and  other  causes,  were  ranged  ostensibly  on  the 
side  of  the  existing  powers — all  of  which  interest- 
ing matters,  though  they  related  to  transactions 
that  were  long  past,  and  of  individuals  no  longer 
living,  and  of  families,  perhaps  now  extinct,  were 
still  sufficiently  attractive  to  bring  crowds  of  visi- 
ters to  Dr.  Watson's  house,  which  ended  in  so 
alarming  the  papal  government,  that  the  secretary 
of  state  was  sent,  first  with  overtures  for  the  re-pur- 
chase of  the  papers,  but  which,  soon  after,  even- 
tuated in  obtaining  them  by  force,  accompanied 
also  by  arrest  of  the  patriotic  Scot !  The  Pope 
then  gave  orders  for  the  careful  examination  of  the 
manuscripts,  which  were  finally  tendered  to  the 
British  government,  and  a  frigate  was  hastily  de- 
spatched with  them  to  England  !  Dr.  Watson,  as 
the  tale  goes,  immediately  thereafter  was  released 
from  his  durance  vile,  and  as  soon  as  possible  ap- 
peared before  the  Regent  at  Carlton  House,  and 
there  claimed  as  his  own  purchased  property,  the 
manuscripts;  Avhich,  as  he  contended,  could  be 
regarded  in  no  other  light  than  as  the  private 
and  individual  property  of  a  bona  fide  purchaser, 
and  to  which  the  crown,  or  reigning  monarch  of 


138  DR.    WATSON    AND    THE    STUART    PAPERS. 

England,  could  have  no  hereditary  claim,  especially 
after  a  sale  by  a  regularly  constituted  executor  in  a 
foreign  land.  But,  where  power  is  mostly  on  one 
side — where  possession  (said  to  be  nine  points  of 
the  law)  was  in  a  mighty  prince,  and  where  state 
policy  might  conflict  with  private  views,  either  of 
utility  or  of  emolument,  the  hope  of  a  favourable 
decision  for  the  return  of  the  papers,  could  have 
been  but  slight.  A  commission,  however,  was 
constituted  to  investigate  the  claim,  which,  as  I 
suppose,  being  found  untenable,  we  hear  no  more 
of  Dr.  Watson ;  and  the  question  now  is,  what  has 
become  of  these  Stuart  Papers !  for,  although  two 
large  quarto  volumes  have  been  given  to  the  world, 
by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Clarke,  which  are  said  to  have 
been  published  by  the  command  of  the  Prince 
Regent,  from  original  Stuart  manuscripts,  disco- 
vered since  the  death  of  the  last  of  the  Stuarts ; 
there  seems  to  be  some  confusion  in  regard  to  the 
batch  of  papers  from  which  these  volumes  are 
compiled ;  and  whether  they  embrace  any  of  those 
purchased  by  Dr.  Watson  !  It  is  said,  indeed,  that 
the  whole  tale  of  Dr.  Watson's  discovery  at  Rome, 
is  untrue,  and  that  a  valuable  collection  was  pur- 
chased by  him  at  Paris,  from  a  priest,  who,  faith- 
less to  the  trust  reposed  in  him  by  the  pope's  audi- 
tor, sold  them,  and  for  a  trifle ;  and  though  shortly 
after  regained  by  the  auditor,  they  never  reached 
Carlton  House  !  This,  however,  is,  in  turn,  pro- 
bably a  great  mistake ;  but  the  two  volumes  issued 
by  the  prince's  command,  (if  no  others  have  been 
since   published)  seem  not  to  contain  those   em- 


DR.  WATSON  AND  THE  STUART  PAPERS.    139 

braced  by  Dr.  Watson's  collection.  It  is  said 
that  Atterbury's  letter  giving  a  plan  of  invasion — 
another  from  the  Duke  of  Leeds  to  the  admiral 
then  in  command  of  the  fleet,  offering  him  an  im- 
mense sum,  and  a  peerage,  as  a  tempting  guerdon 
for  his  defection,  and  also  many  private  letters  of 
friendship,  which  passed  between  the  royal  exiles, 
their  relatives  and  secret  adherents,  as  also  for  their 
companions  in  misfortune,  all  of  which  were  full 
of  interest,  formed  a  part  of  the  extensive  collec- 
tion, once  in  Dr.  Watson's  possession. 

I  confess,  I  am  never  drawn  to  the  sad  fate  of 
the  first  Charles,  without  emotion,  and  a  deep  sym- 
pathy, for  the  downfldl  of  his  house — but  then,  how 
soon  am  1  compelled  to  remember  what  an  arrant 
knave  and  petit  tnaitre  was  the  second  Charles,  and 
what  a  pauvre  (liable  was  the  second  James !  and 
further,  how  illustrious  has  been  the  nation's  glory, 
under  the  house  of  Brunswick;  and  how  glowing 
and  radiant  are  the  hopes  of  this  truly  great  people, 
under  their  present  very  promising,  though  youth- 
ful, dueen  Victoria !  The  unhappy  Charles  during 
his  gloomy  imprisonment  at  Carisbrooke  castle,  is 
then  nearly  forgotten — and  even  the  dreadful  scene 
of  his  execution  becomes  in  some  degree  veiled 
from  my  view — and  the  wanderings  of  the  Pre- 
tender, Charles  Edward,  and  the  long,  pious,  and 
unpretending  life  of  Henry — the  last  of  the  Stuarts, 
all  pass  in  review  before  me,  with  nothing  beyond 
those  fleeting,  and  mere  historical  sympathies, 
which  leave  no  shadow  of  regret  on  one's  mind, 
that  their  throne  has  been  so  long  occupied,  and  is 


140  DR.    WATSON    AND    THE    STUART    PAPERS. 

destined  for  ever  so  to  be,  by  those  of  other  blood  ; 
and  that  when  Henry,  Cardinal  d'York,  in  1807, 
was  consigned  to  his  tomb  in  the  church  at  Fras- 
cati,  that  event  made  an  end  for  ever  of  this  long, 
long  line  of  noble  and  of  royal  blood,  that  counted 
from  the  Norman  Fitz  Alan,  through  a  period  of 
eight  centuries !  And  yet,  when  my  eye  ran 
rapidly  over  the  poor  little  monument  erected  to  his 
memory,  as  also  that  to  his  brother  prince  Charles 
Edvi'-ard,  who  died  in  1787,  I  could  not  but  feel  as 
if  I  should  have  been  better  pleased,  had  the  great 
British  nation,  in  this  one  instance  at  least,  have 
manifested  a  more  generous  feeling  towards  this 
last  of  an  unfortunate  family,  and  for  ever  have 
recorded  by  a  splendid  mausoleum,  and  an  apt 
inscription,  not  only  their  own  oblivion  of  the 
errors  that  deprived  the  Stuarts  of  their  throne, 
but  the  nation's  enduring  horror  at  the  act  that 
consigned  the  most  amiable  of  that  family  to  im- 
prisonment, and  to  a  most  unmerited  death.  There 
is  likewise  a  monument  in  St.  Peter's  at  Rome,  to 
the  memory  of  James  III.  and  of  his  sons,  Charles 
and  Henry — the  genii,  with  their  inverted  torches, 
beautifully  and  mournfully  tell  us,  the  royal  line  of 
these  titular  kings  is  now  extinct.  It  is  a  deliglit- 
ful  work,  by  Canova — by  whom,  or  at  whose  in- 
stance erected,  I  do  not  remember. 

The  character  of  Henry,  bishop  of  Frascati, 
seems  to  be  but  little  known,  and  indeed,  little  has 
been  ever  said  or  written  of  him.  I  was  happy, 
therefore,  to  meet  in  the  chaste  and  veracious 
Forsyth,  with  the  following  notice  of  the  king — 


DR.    WATSON   AND    THE    STUART    PAPERS.  141 

Cardinal,  which,  I  trust,  will  need  no  apology  for 
its  insertion  here. — 'At  the  Rocca  I  was  intro- 
duced to  Cardinal  York,  and  felt  some  emotion 
on  seeing  the  last  withered  branch  of  that  unfor- 
tunate family  which  had  reigned  in  my  country 
so  many  ages.  The  Cardinal  appeared  to  me  an 
hospitable,  warm-hearted,  testy  old  man,  and  dis- 
covered, even  at  his  own  table,  something  of  that 
peremptory  manner  which,  being  supported  by 
long  seniority  and  illustrious  birth,  gave  him,  I 
understood,  an  ascendency  in  the  sacred  college, 
over  minds  superior  to  his  own.  When  my  name 
and  country  were  announced,  he  said  he  had  heard 
of  seco?id  sight  in  Scotland,  but  never  of  Fore- 
sight, and  this  poor  joke  drew  a  laugh  from  all 
that  understood  English,  which  the  Cardinal  talks 
pretty  well  for  a  foreigner.  When  my  friend  told 
him  that  my  grandfather  fell  in  the  Stuart  cause, 
the  recollection  of  that  cause  drew  a  tear  into  his 
eye,  an  emotion  to  which  he  is  very  subject.  His 
face  is  handsome,  smooth,  ruddy,  without  wrinkle, 
except  on  the  forehead.  He  stoops  much  and 
walks  with  difficulty.  His  dress  was  an  alterna- 
tion of  red  and  black ;  a  scarlet  coif;  a  black  coat 
lined  with  scarlet  silk ;  a  black  silk  mantle,  a 
scarlet  waistcoat,  black  velvet  breeches,  scarlet 
stockings,  black  shoes,  scarlet  heels,  purple  coat 
laced  with  gold,  and  a  plain  episcopal  cross  on 
his  breast.  I  could  perceive  at  dinner  a  residue 
of  royal  state.  There  was  a  space  between  him 
and  us  sufficient  for  another  cover — after  a  pause 
in  conversation,  none  began  till  he  spoke.  He 
13 


142         DR.    WATSON    AND    THE    STUART    PAPERS. 

had  a  salt-cellar  for  himself,  but  it  was  stone-ware  I 
the  others  were  of  silver:  he  had  his  own  soup  in 
a  porringer !  and  ours  was  in  a  tureen.  On  his 
carriage  he  has  the  regal  crown  under  the  Cardi- 
nal's hat:  but  he  never  assumed,  like  his  brother, 

the   title   of  majesty.' Will  the   human   heart 

ever  lose  its  interest,  even  in  such  little  matters, 
when  they  relate  to  those  who  have,  or  who  might 
have  been,  at  the  head  of  human  power  and  great- 
ness? Truly  no.  And  yet  it  would  be  difficult 
to  resolve  this  feeling  into  its  primary  elements, 
so  as  to  show  us  clearly,  why  it  is  so !  When 
Napoleon  fell,  the  world  rejoiced;  when  in  exile 
on  a  desert  rock,  the  world  sympathized  ;  and  that 
sympathy  seemed  to  grow  deeper,  and  deeper,  not 
merely  as  the  fallen  emperor  became  more  and 
more  oppressed,  but  as  the  proofs  grew  stronger 
and  stronger  of  the  solid  blessings  the  world  was 
enjoying,  in  consequence  of  his  exile  !  How  won- 
derful are  the  human  heart  and  mind ! — what  a 
medley  of  inconsistencies  and  of  contradictions  is 
it ! — who,  but  iliat  great  Being:,  to  whom  nothing 
is  dark,  can  unravel  it ! 


TAKING    HEAVEN    BY    STORM.  143 

NOTE    XII. — TAKING    HEAVEN   BY    STORM. 

'Better  late  than  never'  is  an  old  saw  that 
every  one  likes — it  savours  of  existing  hope,  or  of 
positive  acquisition,  which  though  long  deferred, 
still  comes  with  'healing  on  its  wings,'  to  gladden 
the  heart,  and  to  compensate  for  many  anxious 
expectations. 

The  saying  is  eminently  true,  though  seldom  so 
applied,  as  to  repentance,  which,  come  when  it 
may,  even  in  the  article  of  death,  is  never  too 
late,  if  it  be  that  deep  remorse  for  sin,  that  rm- 
mixed  reliance  on  the  Saviour,  and  that  thorough 
resolution  to  avoid  a  relapse,  which  springs  from 
a  love  towards  heaven,  and  not  from  a  mere  dread 
of  hell.  The  doctrine  to  which  I  allude,  in  any 
of  its  forms,  and  however  true  it  may  be,  is  still 
environed  with  many  dangers;  and,  if  ever  adopt- 
ed as  a  rule  of  action,  or  permitted,  in  any  degree 
to  influence  our  conduct  when  in  heahh,  will 
be  very  apt  to  stand  us  in  the  poorest  stead,  when 
we  come  to  the  last  hour. 

He  is,  indeed,  a  reckless  calculator,  who  could 
for  a  moment  voluntarily  defer  the  day  of  amend- 
ment, that  he  may  intermediately  sin,  until  incli- 
nation, or  ability  so  to  do,  shall  cease,  and  then 
be  followed  by  the  hoped  for  saving  repentance! 
The  truth  is  that,  perhaps,  nearly  all  men  love 
repentance  w  the  abstract ;  but,  present  enjoy- 
ments, engrossing  miseries,  or  sheer  thoughtless- 
ness,  shut  out  reflection;   or,  if  that  sometimes 


144  TAKING    HEAVEN    BY    STORM. 

comes,  they  lack  the  moral  courage — the  firmness 
of  purpose,  either  to  make,  or  to  execute  any  pious 
resohition.  Many  do  mentally  assent  to  the  beauty 
of  the  virtues,  and  to  the  necessity  of  a  change  of 
life ;  but  they  shrink  from  action^  or  vainly  hope 
for  some  instantaneous  and,  as  it  were,  compulsory 
transformation,  that  may  plant  them  safely  on  the 
shore  of  unalloyed  spiritual  enjoyment,  without 
resort  to  any  of  the  pains  and  denials  of  an  active 
seeking  after  its  goods. 

Now,  as  it  seems  to  me,  it  is  this  very  slugglish- 
ness,  this  passive  willingness  to  be  changed,  and 
the  absence  of  all  active  willingness  to  change 
themselves,  that  occasion  men  to  cling  so  tena- 
ciously to  the  hope,  and  to  the  efficacy  of  a  death- 
bed repentance.  When  in  health,  the  mind  indulg- 
ing this  hope,  transfers  itself,  in  imagination,  to  the 
moment  when  all  necessity  for  action  is  gone,  and 
when  life,  then  about  to  end,  can  no  longer  have 
any  charms.  Such  an  imagination  demands  no 
present,  and  active  willingness,  no  instant  sacrifice, 
no  actual  change  of  condition — and  hence  may  be 
full  of  that  passive  willingness,  which  deceives 
ourselves,  assumes  the  show  of  religion,  and 
makes  a  present  merit  of  a  possible  future  death- 
bed repentance ! 

But  even  this  shadow  of  anticipated  religion, 
this  curious  blending  and  compounding  of  passive 
with  active  willingness,  this  mere  fiction  and  con- 
trivance of  the  deceitful  and  subtle  enemy  of  man, 
wholly  vanishes,  the  moment  any  appeal  is  made 
to  such  persons  to  show  at  once  the  verity  of  their 


TAKING   HEAVEN   BY   STORM.  145 

wishes   and    their    hopes,   by   even    some   partial 
rehnquishment  of  a  besetting  sin.     It  is  on  such 
an  occasion  that  the  mind  begins  to  plead  its  own 
infirmities,  to  ponder  over  the  world's  pleasures, 
cares,  and  temptations,  and  to  at  first  silently  post- 
pone, and  then  openly  and  willingly  banish  all 
fiirther  reflection — until  a  more  convenient  season  ! 
Connected  with  the  mental  state  first  mentioned, 
is  the  great  alacrity  with  which  one  listens  to,  and 
the  confidence  he  reposes  in,  nearly  every  idle  tale 
of  the  happy,  nay  triumphant  exit,  even  from  the 
scaffold,  of  some  notorious  robber,  pirate,  or  mur- 
derer!    That  mankind   have  this  strange   procli- 
vity, that  some  indulge  it  to  a  great  extent,  and 
that  its  solution  is  ever  to  be  found  in  the  princi- 
ple I  have  staled,  there  seems  to  be  no  reason  to 
doubt :  and  though  the  clergy  be  specially  called 
on   by  their   holy  vocation,  to  use   their  zealous 
endeavors  in  behalf  of  those  destined  to  forfeit  life 
for  their  crimes,  it  seems  to  me  specially  unwise, 
as  well  in  regard  to  public  policy,  as  to  salutary 
religion,  to  blazon   forth   their   successes,  as  has 
been  so  often  done  in  this,  and  in  other  countries; 
and  to  place  such  violators  of  divine  and  human 
laws  among  the  saints,  as  objects  of  a  lively  sym- 
pathy, and  to  pass  them,  as  it  were,  from  the  scene 
of  execution,  to  one  of  unmingled  triumph!     The 
clergy,  in  common   with  all  good  men,  ought  to 
be  happy  at  such  changes  ;   but  let  there   be  no 
open  parade  of  suck  co7iversions,  lest  we  greatly 
augment  the  number  of  those,  already  very  great, 
who  would  'begin  to  live,  only  when  ready  to  die, 
13* 


146  TAKING    HEAVEN    BY    STORM. 

and  then,  after  a  foe^s  desert,  come  to  claim  of  God 
?i  friend'' s  entertainment  P 

It  is  indeed  true  and  a  great  solace  that  there  'is 
more  joy  in  heaven  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth, 
than  over  ninety  and  nine  just  men,  that  need 
no  repentance' — but  such  repentances  as  we  now 
speak  of,  and  even  of  those  who  die  in  their  beds, 
and  who  have  no  capital  sins  to  mourn  over,  should 
ever  be  regarded  as  belonging  to  so  humble  a  class 
of  converts,  as  to  have  no  just  claim  to  be  vaunted 
of,  but  should  be  permitted,  in  all  humility,  after 
the  interesting  fact  is  adverted  to,  to  remain  among 
those  unsought  and  little  known  to  mortal  eye,  so 
far  as  regards  their  destiny  in  the  world  beyond 
the  grave :  for  these  last-hour  repentances,  are 
matters  between  them  and  their  Creator,  to  be 
spoken  of  with  a  marked  humility,  surrounded  as 
they  usually  are,  by  so  many  dangers  and  doubts, 
and  being  in  themselves,  so  liable  to  be  false  and 
insidious  counterfeits,  and  plausible  contrivances 
of  the  arch-enemy  of  human  souls,  and  so  often 
extorted,  during  the  agonizing  moments  of  mental 
and  of  bodily  pain,  as  to  render  the  criterions  of 
genuine  faith,  far  from  sure  to  human  scrutiny. 
Be  this,  however,  as  it  may,  1  am  quite  certain 
that,  although  the  solaces  of  hope  should  never  be 
withdrawn,  it  is  the  supremest  of  follies  to  value 
on  a  supine  or  voluntary  postponement  of  reforma- 
tion to  some  future  day,  which  may  be  not  only 
suddenly  cut  off  by  any  one  of  a  thousand  acci- 
dents, but  be  rendered  wholly  unavailing  by  bodily 
pains,  that  banish  the  possibility  of  a  sober  and 


TAKING   HEAVEN   BY    STORM.  147 

tliorough  repentance.  But,  in  respect  to  storming 
heaven,  as  it  were,  by  the  sudden  appeals  of  those 
who,  in  a  few  short  days  are  to  expiate  their  crimes 
on  a  scaffold,  and  to  deal  with  them  so  triumph- 
antly, as  is  sometimes  the  case,  seems  to  me  sig- 
nally unwise,  both  as  respects  the  wicked  and  the 
good — all  that  such  cases  seem  to  justify  is  a  silent, 
unobtrusive  thankfuhiess  for  the  rich  manifestation 
of  God's  grace ;  and  not  such  triumphant  proces- 
sions to  the  scaffold,  as  are  sometimes  witnessed, 
confounding  the  tried  saints  with  those  who, 
almost  in  articulo  mortis  have  been  tried  sinners ! 

This  reminds  me  of  a  quaint,  but  very  pertinent 
remark  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  who  saith,  'there  be 
some  persons  who  think  to  snatch  heaven  in  a  mo- 
ment, which  the  best  can  scarce  attain  unto  even 
in  the  maintenance  of  very  many  years  ;  and  when 
they  have  glutted  themselves  with  wordly  delights, 
(or  crimes  of  the  darkest  dye)  would  jump  from 
Dives'  fare,  to  Lazarus'  crown — from  the  service  of 
Satan,  to  the  solace  of  a  saint !' 

Now,  to  such  persons  would  I  respond  in  the 
language  of  this  same  wise,  but  unfortunate  man, 
who  thus  discourseth  on  the  point  in  hand — 'But 
be  ye  well  assured,  that  God  is  not  so  penurious  of 
friends,  as  to  hold  himself  and  his  kingdom  sale- 
able for  the  refuse  and  reversion  of  their  lives,  who 
have  sacrificed  the  principal  part  thereof  to  his 
e}ietnies,  and  to  their  own  brutish  lusts — then 
ceasing  to  offend,  only  when  the  ability  of  offend- 
ing is  taken  from  them.' 


148  TAKING    HEAVEN    BY    STORM. 

In  an  article  entitled  '  The  Dutiful  Advice  of  a 
loving  Son  to  his  aged  Father,^  by  the  same  inte- 
resting philosopher,  there  are  some  pertinent  obser- 
vations on  my  subject ;  which  being  so  full  of  just 
thought,  nervously  expressed,  are  transferred  to  my 
Note  Book,  to  be  often  read  by  me,  and  for  my 
profit,  withal,  who  am  no  longer  a  'son,'  but  a 
somewhat  '■aged  father.'' 

'If  you  were  now  laid  upon  your  departing  bed,' 
(saith  the  son  to  the  father)  'burthened  with  the 
heavy  load  of  your  former  trespasses,  and  gored 
with  the  sting  and  prick  of  a  festered  conscience ; 
if  you  felt  the  cramp  of  death  wresting  your  heart- 
strings, and  ready  to  make  the  rueful  divorce  be- 
tween  body   and  soul ;    if   you   lay   panting   for 
breath,  and   swimming   in   cold   and  pale  sweat, 
wearied  with  struggling  against  your  deadly  pangs, 
oh  what  would  you  not  give  for  an  hour's  repen- 
tance ! — at  what  a  rate  would  you  value  a  day's 
contrition !     Then  worlds  would  be  worthless  in 
respect  of  a  little  respite — a  short  truce  would  seem 
more  precious  than  the  treasures  of  an  empire — 
nothing  would  be  so  much  esteemed  as  a  short 
time  of  truce,  which  now  by  days,  and  months, 
and  years,  is  most  lavishly  mis-spent !' — Again,  'it 
is  a  strange   piece  of  art,  and  a  very  exorbitant 
course,  when  the  ship  is  bound,  the  pilot  well,  the 
mariners  strong,  the  gale  favourable,  and  the  sea 
calm,  to  lie  idly  in  the  road,  during  so  seasonable 
weather:  and  when  the  ship  Ieaketh,the  pilot  sick, 
the  mariners  faint,  the  storms  boisterous,  and  the 


TAKING    HEAVEN    BY    STORM.  149 

seas  a  turmoil  of  outrageous  surges,  then  to  launch 
forth,  hoist  up  sail,  and  set  out  for  a  long  voyage 
into  a  far  country ! — And  yet  such  is  the  skill  of 
these  evening  repenters,  who  though  in  the  sound- 
ness of  their  health,  and  perfect  use  of  their  reason, 
they  cannot  resolve  to  cut  the  cables,  and  weigh 
anchor  that  withholds  them  from  God.' — 'Never- 
theless, they  feed  themselves  with  a  strong  persua- 
sion, that  when  they  are  astonied,  their  wits  dis- 
tracted, their  understanding  dusked,  and  their 
bodies  and  souls  racked  and  tormented  with  the 
throbs  and  gripes  of  a  mortal  sickness — then,  for- 
sooth, they  begin  to  think  of  their  weightiest 
matters,  and  become  sudden  saints^  when  they 
are  scarce  able  to  behave  themselves  like  reason- 
able creatures.' — 'No,  no  ;  if  neither  the  canon, 
civil,  nor  common  law  will  allow  a  man,  perished 
in  judgment,  to  make  any  testament  of  his  tem- 
poral substance ;  how  can  he,  who  is  animated 
with  inward  garboils  of  an  unsettled  conscience, 
distrained  with  the  wringing  fits  of  his  expiring 
body,  maimed  in  all  his  ability,  and  circled  on 
every  side,  with  many  and  strange  incumbrances, 
be  thought  of  due  discretion  to  dispose  of  his 
chiefest  jewel — his  soul?  and  to  despatch  eternity^ 
and  all  the  treasures  of  heaven^  in  so  short  a 
spurt! — No,  no;  they  that  will  loiter  in  seed-time, 
and  begin  to  sow  when  others  reap;  they  that 
will  riot  out  their  health,  and  begin  to  cast  their 
accounts,  when  they  are  scarce  able  to  speak  ;  they 
that  will  sUimber  out  the  day,  and  enter  upon  their 
journey  when  the  light  doth  fail  them,  must  blame 


150  TAKIXG   HEAVEN   BY    STORM. 

their  own  folly,  if  they  die  in  debt,  and  be  eternal 
beggars.' 

The  foregoing  passages  from  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
seem  to  me  most  worthy  of  being  printed  in  letters 
of  gold,  and  to  form  a  little  vade  mecum,  to  be  sus- 
pended round  the  neck,  close  to  the  heart,  of  every 
son  and  daughter  of  Adam — that  they  may  be  re- 
minded, constantly,  how  poor  the  dependence  is  of 
those  who  would  flatter  themselves  that,  at  some 
remote  day,  they  may  take  heaven  by  storm !  And, 
I  feel  almost  ashamed  of  my  own  previous  remarks, 
when  placed  in  such  close  connection  with  his, — 
for  Raleigh's  thoughts,  like  the  diamond,  are  bril- 
liant in  proportion  to  their  solidity — other  men's 
are  made  to  shine  in  the  lustre  of  language,  in 
proportion  as  solidity  fails  them. 

But,  in  conclusion,  let  me  add  what  Quarles 
hath  said  of  repentance. 

'  'Tis  to  bewail  the  '=ins  thou  didst  commit  ^ 
And  not  ronjmit  those  sins  thou  hast  bewail'd. 
He  that  bewails  and  not  forsakes  them  too, 
Confesses  rather  what  he  means  to  do.' 

In  now  parting  with  my  subject,  I  would  only 
say,  that  an  attempt  to  take  heaven  by  storm,  is 
still  an  homage  to  the  Most  High,  and  is  far  better 
than  that  sullen  despair  which  the  following  lines 
of  Joanna  Baillie  would  seem  to  inculcate : — 

'Priest!  spare  thy  words — I  add  not  to  my  sins 
That  of  presumption,  in  pretending  now 
To  offer  up  to  heaven  the  forc'd  repentance 
Of  some  short  moments,  for  a  life  of  crimes.' 


CHAPTER  IV. 

XIII.  THE  TRAVELLING  ETYMOLOGIST.  —  XIV.  BENVENUTO 
CELLENT. — XV.  PUBLIC  CEMETERIES. — XVI.  EVENTS  HOW 
RELATED     TO     REMOTE     CIRCUMSTANCES. 

NOTE    XIII. THE    TRAVELLING    ETYMOLOGIST. 

One  hardly  knows  whether  to  be  more  amused 
than  vexed,  with  the  idle  fancies  and  studied  dis- 
play of  vain  and  curious  learning,  in  which  some 
college-bred  gentlemen,  of  thin  minds,  love  to 
indulge.  When  we  permit  our  thoughts  to  dwell 
more  on  words,  than  on  ideas ;  when  such  things 
as  accident,  quantity,  etymology,  nomenclature, 
and  the  like  auxiliaries  and  mere  ladders  to 
science,  are  allowed  to  take  the  place  of  the  very 
essence  of  knowledge,  you  may  be  quite  sure  that 
the  individual  so  affected,  though  abounding  in 
all  the  heaped-up  accumulations  of  learning,  has 
more  of  memory,  than  of  judgment, — is  charged 
to  overflowing  with  facts, — and  is  yet  devoid  of  the 
powers  of  analysis,  and  of  justly  applying  them; 
and  that,  with  much  voluble  and  plausible  display 
of  knowledge,  he  has  still  a  very  tiny  mind,  and 
but  little  of  that  philosophical  practicalness  which 
comes  from  the  fountain  of  common  sense. 


152  THE    TRAVELLING    ETYMOLOGIST. 

I  am  reminded  of  this  species  of  character  by  a 
remarkable  conversation  between  a  curious  En- 
glishman and  myself,  at  Rome,  which  was  strange- 
ly brought  about.  A  more  kind-hearted,  wordy, 
amusing,  and  pedantic  gentleman  of  books,  seldom 
issued  from  Oxford  or  Cambridge.  When  in  a 
foreign  land,  Englishmen  are  proverbially  anti- 
social ;  and  the  traveller,  from  whatever  land, 
scarce  ventures  to  address  one  of  them,  without 
some  special  authority  so  to  do;  and  thus  it  was, 
at  first,  between  us;  and  our  centrifugal  relations 
might  for  ever  have  continued,  had  not  the  Briton's 
etymological  passion,  eventually  triumphed  over 
national  character — and  opened  his  mouth. 

During  nearly  three  hours,  we  had  both  been 
solitary  and  silent  explorers,  as  it  turned  out,  of 
the  same  interesting  point — the  true  course  and 
limits  of  the  Via  Sacra!  We  met  first,  near  the 
Temple  of  Antoninus  and  Faustina,  every  part  of 
which  was  curiously  examined  by  us — we  then 
traced  the  progress  of  the  sacred  way  through  the 
Forum,  passed  with  it  under  the  Arch  of  Titus, 
examined  many  patches,  here  and  there  visible, 
of  some  ancient  road,  either  that,  or  the  Via 
Triuniphalis! — stopped  under  the  Arch,  through 
which,  it  is  said,  Jews  never  pass,  and  inspected, 
with  minuteness,  this  very  early,  if  not  the  earliest 
specimen  of  the  composite  order, — noted  its  deeply 
interesting  bas-reliefs,  so  learnedly  illustrated  by 
Reland — eyed  each  other  an  hundred  times — stood 
in  close  contact  under  the  Arch,  and  with  intense 
curiosity,  scanned  its  yet  perfect  remains,  which 


THE    TRAVELLING   ETYMOLOGIST.  153 

sculpture  to  the  eye  the  very  forms  of  the  sacred 
vessels  used  in  the  Temple  of  Jerusalem — then 
passed  again  into  the  Forum — reached  the  Temple 
of  Peace,  or  rather  the  Basilka  of  Constantine — 
looked  with  wonder  at  its  enormous  arches — on 
the  remains  of  its  stuccoed  ceilings,  its  broken 
shafts  and  capitals — and  pondered  over  the  nume- 
rous fragments,  which  indicated  a  truly  mammoth 
building ; — and  leaving  these,  we  were  conducted, 
under  the  guidance  of  a  bright  moon,  near  an 
hour  after  sun-set,  to  the  base  of  the  Mamertine 
Prisons — and  (would  you  credit  it  gentle  reader !) 
all  this  was  done  without  our  exchanging  a  single 
word,  though  we  had  given  each  other  many- 
very  significant,  and  apparently  yearning  looks, 
the  result,  possibly,  of  that  irresistible  sympathy 
which  springs  from  the  social  principle,  and  espe- 
cially from  a  community  of  pursuit ! 

My  patience,  I  confess,  had  been  nearly  ex- 
hausted ;  and  had  he  hailed  from  any  other  land, 
I  should  most  certainly  have  disturbed  his  taci- 
turnity. The  noble  hospitality,  the  great  good 
sense,  the  elegant  refinement  of  Englishmen,  which 
I  had  seen  and  experienced,  when  sojourning  for 
a  time  in  England,  flashed  across  my  mind,  and 
mitigated  the  severity  of  judgment,  I  should  other- 
wise have  passed  upon  him.  For  a  moment,  I 
was  disposed  to  leave  him  abruptly,  and  pursue 
my  way,  alone  and  solitary  to  my  lodgings,  quite 
remote  from  where  we  then  were.  But,  as  we 
ascended  the  long  flight  of  steps  which  led  into 
the  Capitoline  Piazza,  my  surprise  was  extreme, 
14 


154  THE    TRAVELLING    ETYMOLOGIST. 

when  the  silent  gentleman  suddenly  started  upon 
me  a  series  of  etymological  questions,  doubts,  and 
solutions — some  of  which  will  be  here  recorded. 

As  he  looked  upon  the  broad  expanse  of  the 
Mamertine  prison,  here,  flooded  with  light  from 
the  clear  moon,  and  there,  cast  into  shade ;  and  as 
we  were  slowly  ascending  towards  its  base,  he 
abruptly  said,  '■XJnde  derivatur — whence  comes 
this  word  mamertine?  do  you  know,  it  puzzles 
me  greatly — is  it  likely  that  PanciroUi  is  correct? 
he,  you  know,  derives  it  from  Mamercus^  who, 
you  know,  was  one  of  the  sons  of  Numa,  and 
the  founder  of  the  Mamercian  family — the  name 
Mamercus  is  said  to  have  passed,  as  words,  you 
know,  often  do,  into  Mamertinus.'  Without  yield- 
ing me  the  least  chance  to  respond  to  his  question, 
he  proceeded  to  unfold  the  contents  of  his  etymo- 
logical budget,  whilst  we  tacitly  agreed  to  wend 
our  way  home,  much  more  like  social  beings,  than 
had  been  our  previous  relation.  'I  confess,'  con- 
tinued he,  'Pancirolli's  account  of  the  matter  is 
not  at  all  to  my  mind.  Ancus  Martins,  you  know, 
was  its  founder;  it  is  quite  probable,  then,  that 
this  prison  takes  its  name  from  him, — for  Martins 
was  anciently  written  Mamertius^  and  this  agrees, 
you  know,  with  the  Oscan  language,  in  which  the 
word  Mamers  is  equivalent  to  Mars,  which  is  but 
a  contraction  of  Mamers  or  Martius — do  you  not 
think  so?' 

I  at  once,  as  I  thought,  saw  into  the  strange 
vein  of  ray  new  acquaintance,  with  whom  etymo- 
logy was  evidently  a  mania ;  and,  as  he  had  some- 


THE    TRAVELLING    ETYMOLOGIST.  155 

what  incommoded  me  by  his  three  hours'  hermeti- 
cal  taciturnity,  I  was  now  disposed,  innocently  to 
provoke  him  to  'much  talk,'  by  somewhat  conflict- 
ing with  his  opinions.  My  reply,  therefore,  a  little 
disturbed  him,  but  was  the  source  of  many  subse- 
quent etymological  colloquies,  as  we  happened  to 
meet  in  our  antiquarian  rambles.  'I  confess,'  said 
I,  'that  etymology  has  ever  seemed  to  me  among 
the  most  fallible  of  guides  to  truth  of  any  kind ; 
and  that  it  should  be  appealed  to,  only  in  the 
dernier  resort.  I  would  not  reject  it  absolutely ; 
but,  as  there  is  so  broad  a  latitude  in  it  for  the 
merest  fancies,  and  as  so  many  absurd  refinements 
have  ever  attended  it,  1  cannot  but  view  it  with 
extreme  suspicion,  and  seldom  place  any  reliance 
on  it,  unless  where  the  radix,  its  corruptions, 
transitions,  additions,  &c.  are  very  palpable — or 
where  some  collateral  evidence  comes  to  my  aid 

'I  differ  with  you  toto  codo^  rejoined  my  com- 
panion ;  'etymology  is  the  surest  key  to  unlock 
very  many  doubts  and  difficulties ;  it  has  great 
utility,  great  certainty,  and  embraces  an  immense 
variety  of  subjects.'  'I  willingly  consent  to  all 
you  say,  provided  it  he  etymology  lawfully  used — 
but  what  you  have  said,  even  in  respect  to  the 
word  marnertine,  seems  to  me  sheer  and  mere 
conjecture;  for,  on  your  own  showing,  it  may  be 
derived  either  from  Mamertia,  the  son  of  Numa, 
or  from  Mamers,  an  equivalent  Oscan  word  for 
Martins — or  it  may,  as  I  think  I  could  show, 
come  from  several  other  sources.'  'Not  at  all,  sir, 
not  at  all,'  harshly  replied  the  Englishman,  'see 


15G  THE    TRAVELLING    ETYMOLOGIST. 

how  obviously  the  transitions  and  contractions 
bring  you  up  to  the  Oscan  root — and  Ancus  Mar- 
tius  being  the  admitted  founder,  furnishes  the 
collateral  evidence  you  have  demanded,  showing 
that  martins  and  mamertinus  are  evidently  equi- 
valent words.'  'You  doubtless  know,'  said  I  with 
affected  gravity,  'the  old  account  about  the  word 
mmwo,  how  it  is  derived  from  a  certain  Mr.  Jere- 
miah  King — by  the  accustomed  resort  to  transi- 
tions, contractions,  and  corruptions,  somewhat  in 
this  w'lSQ— Jeremiah  King — Jerry  King — Terk- 
ing —  Girken —  Cucumber — Mango  /' 

'This  you  know,'  rejoined  the  etymologist,  'was 
manufactured,  and  originally  uttered  in  derision  of 
etymology ;  and,  perhaps,  you  would  now  so  apply 
it — but  ridicule  can  never  be  the  test  of  truth  ;  and 
the  very  case  you  put,  establishes  my  position,  for 
even  your  extreme  case  might  well  have  hap- 
pened— mango  might  have  gone  through  these 
and  many  more  changes,  for  what  I  know,  and 
have  had  for  its  progenitor  Mr.  Jeremiah  King ! — 
all  etymology  proves  this,  I  mean  the  principle. 
as  might  be  abundantly  proved  by  instances  of 
transition,  quite  as  curious  as  the  one  you  have 
so  disparagingly  cited.' 

'And  I,  in  turn,  could  state  a  thousand  still 
more  tortured  and  far-fetched,  than  that  of  mango, 
which  you  seem  not  utterly  to  repudiate !  What 
do  you  think  of  Fabian's  derivation  of  Constanti- 
nople from  Constantinus  nobilis — Constantine  the 
noble !  and  how,  upon  his  principle,  would  he 
derive  Adrianople,  and  is  not  pie  a  corruption  of 


THE    TRAVELLING    ETYMOLOGIST.  157 

polis — that  is,  Constantinoi-polis,  the  city  of  Con- 
stantine?  But,  passing  by  Fabian,  who  evidently 
made  a  signal  blunder — what  do  you  think  of  the 
word  Lollard y  from  lolivm — tares  ! — a  convenient 
etymological  argument  this,  for  awarding  the  writ 
de  comburendo  heretico  against  all  Lollards,  as  but 
tares,  meritorious  of  a  fiery  destruction !  Or  fur- 
ther, what  do  you  think  of  the  etymon  of  Mercury 
who,  as  the  tale  goes,  was  hated  by  the  other 
gods,  as  a  fantastic  fellow  that  was  ever  striving 
to  ingratiate  himself  with  those  whom  he  wished 
to  cheat,  and  was  then  dubbed  by  them  a  mere 
curry!  In  like  manner  the  word  Gazette  hath 
puzzled  the  etymologists — what  do  you  think  of 
its  derivation  from  the  fact  that  quidnuncs,  eager 
after  news,  anxiously  gaze  at  these  convenient 
vehicles  ! — or,  of  King  Pepin,  as  derived  from 
some  Greek  word  for  diaper ;  and  hence,  by  your 
favourite  transition  process,  napkin — nipkin — pip- 
kin— pippin  king — King  Pipin  !  The  word  decre- 
pitude has  imputed  to  it  a  somewhat  fanciful  origin, 
though  certainly  a  possible  one — the  ancients,  as  it 
is  said,  never  extinguished  their  lamps,  but  per- 
mitted them  to  expire  by  the  last  crackle!  Hence 
a  lamp  was  said  decrcpitare,  that  is,  to  cease  to 
crackle — and,  by  comparing  our  life  to  the  exhaus- 
tion of  a  lamp,  we  now  say,  by  way  of  metaphor, 
that  persons  verging  on  the  grave,  are  decrepit. 
Now,  1  confess,  I  like  this  derivation  well  enough, 
it's  classical,  'you  know,'  (using  his  favourite  ex- 
pression.) But,  I  will  call  your  attention  to  one 
more;  how  do  you  like  the  cockney  derivation  of 
14* 


158  THE    TRAVELLING    ETYMOLOGIST. 

our  ejaculation  'heigh-ho !'  for,  when  molested  by 
the  troublesome  pipstaff,  they  would  each  mentally 
say  'I  owe,'  which  when  spoken  out,  by  adding 
their  accustomed  aspirates,  would  make  '■hi — 
hoice' — and  hence,  by  augmentation  and  contrac- 
tion, we  have  heigh-ho  P 

'You  are  certainly  quite  sportive,'  replied  the 
English  gentleman,  with  a  great  deal  of  gravity ; 
'but,  I  repeat,  ridicule  is  no  test  of  truth — what, 
suffer  me  to  ask,  that  is  useful  and  admirable,  may 
not  be  rendered,  for  a  moment,  extremely  ridicu- 
lous, by  the  ingenious  application  of  unmitigated 
ridicule?  I  cannot  consent  to  abandon  an  old 
friend,  merely  because  he  happens  to  be  clad,  for  a 
time,  in  tattered,  amusing  and  unworthy  habili- 
ments cast  upon  him  by  others  ! — Etymology  cer- 
tainly merits  deep  attention — in  languages,  it  is 
inestimable,  in  history,  it  is  a  bright  torch — it 
illustrates  the  fine  arts,  settles  questions  of  doubt- 
ful chronology,  reveals  the  disputed  origin  and 
uses  of  very  many  things. — Thus,  for  example, 
when  we  find  the  name  of  Italy  derived  from 
Italos — virtulus — a  calf,  we  ascertain  the  fact  that 
the  ancient  Italians  were  great  herdsmen,  or  raisers 
of  cattle;  so,  likewise,  there  is  surely  some  utility, 
as  well  as  satisfaction,  in  being  able,  as  we  are,  to 
derive  the  word  capital  from  caput  Toli — the  head 
of  Tolus,  or,  as  Arnobius,  with  still  more  veresimi- 
litude,  gives  the  name,  Olus,  and  hence  caput — 
Olus — caputol — capitol.  Now,  as  the  head  of  this 
Tolus,  or  Olus,  at  the  very  time  of  digging  for  the 
foundations,  was  discovered  with  the  face  entire,  it 


THE    TRAVELLING   EYTMOLOGIST.  159 

was  held  to  give  thereby  a  presage  of  Rome's  future 
greatness ;  and  that  Rome  would  be  the  head  of 
the  empire  of  the  world — hence  this  great  temple 
took  the  name  of  the  capiiol,  as  the  head  of  Tolus 
presaged,  that  on  that  spot,  Rome  should  be  made 
the  head  of  all  empire,  military,  civil,  and  eccle- 
siastical !  Again,  we  see  the  Caryatides,  in  every 
form,  and  almost  every  where.  We  are  curious  to 
know  the  origin,  no  less  of  the  name,  than  of  the 
curiously  fashioned  pillar;  and  how  beautiful,  and 
natural  is  its  etymological  history  !  how  admirably 
does  the  figure  itself  of  this  pillar,  harmonize  with 
the  tale  of  its  imputed  origin  !  These  caryatides, 
as  you  know,  uniformly  represent  the  upper  part  of 
a  female  body,  sustaining  on  its  head,  the  incum- 
bent weight.  Now  the  citizens  of  Carya  united 
with  the  Persians  against  the  Greeks,  who  proving 
victorious,  put  all  the  males  to  the  sword,  and  sub- 
jected the  females  to  slavery,  who  were  compelled 
to  march  in  the  victor's  triumphal  procession,  clad 
in  graceful  flowing  robes,  and  supporting  burthens 
on  their  heads,  as  indicative  of  their  captivity  and 
future  servitude.  The  architects  of  those  days, 
availing  themselves  of  tliis  transaction,  both  to  per- 
petuate its  memory,  and  to  add  another  graceful 
and  appropriate  order  to  their  art,  contrived  these 
pillars,  hence  called  caryatides,  which  represent 
the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  female  on  the  top  of 
the  shaft,  with  the  entablature  resting  on  the  head. 
You  have  been  pleased,'  continued  the  etymolo- 
gist, 'to  be  very  sportive  with  what  you  call  our 
transitions,  contractions,  (fcc.  and  yet,  to  give  you 


160  THE    TRAVELLING   ETYMOLOGIST. 

Other  examples,  can  any  one  doubt  but  that  the 
renowned  Punch  has  gone  through  all  of  these  ? 
Is  it  not  manifest  that  the  word  is  derived  from 
Pulliceno — Pullicinella — Punchenello,  and,  for 
short,  Punch  ?  We  have  high  authority  for  this, 
were  any  really  needed.  And,  in  like  manner,  one 
cannot  doubt  but  that  the  name  of  the  town  of 
Gensano  is  derived  from  Cynthianum,  the  fane  of 
Cynthia — and  hence  Gensanum — Gensano.  So 
also,  Horace  mentions  the  gelidus  Digentia  riviis ; 
now,  this  Digentia  is  evidently  found  in  the  mo- 
dern Licenza^  which  is  the  present  name  of  the 
poet's  Sabine  farm ;  and  I  may  likewise  advert  to 
Catullus'  villa,  which  now,  by  corruption,  is  called 
Truglia,  and  with  equal  certainty  is  derived  from 
Catulli. 

'So,  the  church  we  examined  a  few  hours  ago, 
called  /S*.  Maria  in  Dominica,  is  evidently  so  called 
by  corruptions  and  transitions  from  Domitiani- 
Mica;  for  you  know,  Domitius'  Cenaculum,  called 
the  BMca  Aurea,  was  built  upon  the  site  of  the  pre- 
sent church — no  part  of  the  Mica  remains  ;  but  the 
church  we  saw,  was  dedicated  to  the  Madonna^ 
and  originally  was  called  the  Santa  Maria  in  Do- 
mica,  to  perpetuate  the  fact  that  its  foundations 
were  laid  upon  the  site  of  Domitian's  Mica — and 
this  through  various  transitions  may  still  be  traced, 
as  we  find  that  it  was  first  in  Do-mica,  then  in 
Domnica,  and  now  in  Dominica :  for,  Dominica 
has  no  meaning;  but  Do-mica,  is  itself  obviously 
a  contraction  for  Domitiani-mica. 


THE    TRAVELLING   ETYMOLOGIST.  161 

'And,  in  like  manner,  how  well  doth  an  early 
traveller,  whose  name  I  now  forget,  but  who  came 
to  Italy  in  the  fifteenth  century,  explain  the  origin 
of  the  word  Venice ! — Tliere  is,  says  he,  a  little 
church  there,  called  Santo  Jacobo,  which  is  the 
ancientest  church  in  all  Venice ;  and  on  that  spot 
was  the  first  house  built,  and  the  city  was  named 
at  that  time  venete  qua^  in  English,  'come  hither,' 
for  it  was  free  for  every  man  to  build  there;  and, 
from  that  phrase,  'venete  qua,'  it  is  now  turned 
into  'Venetia.' 

'Your  faith  in  etymology,'  rejoined  I,  'seems  to 
me  very  great ;  it  may  aiford  you  much  amuse- 
ment ;  but  may  it  not  also  lead  you  into  many 
errors?  I  agree  with  you  as  to  the  strong  proba- 
bility concerning  the  church  now  called  Domi- 
nica; but,  as  to  vencta  qua,  I  am  a  sceptic.  You 
remember  Dean  Swift's  argument  for  the  antiquity 
of  our  own  language,  in  that  ^Alexander  the  Great'' 
was  so  manifestly  derived  from  a  passage  in  the 
conqueror's  biography,  in  which  the  exclamation 
'■all  eggs  under  the  grate,''  came  to  be  on  a  certain 
occasion,  often  and  emphatically  repeated !  I  would 
further  remind  you  of  the  derivation  that  hath  been 
given  to  our  well  known  word  breeches — in  that, 
when  they  were  first  worn,  it  was  by  the  poveri  of 
a  country,  who  being  hare  of  riches,  usually  bore 
all  their  riches  in  their  breeches,  that  is,  in  this 
their  curtailed  nether  garment !  But,  to  be  more 
serious,  you  have  given  to  the  word  Italy  a  deri- 
vation that  would  make  early  Italians  raisers  of 
cattle;  but  you  must  also  bear  in  mind  that  others 


16-2  THE    TRAVELLING    ETYMOLOGIST. 

have  given  to  this  word  a  very  different  origin  ;  as 
for  example,  from  one  Italus,  a  SiciHan  chieftain — 
or  from  the  Oscan  word  Viteliu,  which,  by  drop- 
ping certain  letters,  and  taking  up  others,  became 
Italia! 

'Your  etymon,  hkewise,  of  Caryatides  differs 
from  that  of  Lessing,  who  derives  it  from  the  fact 
that  Diana  had  a  temple  at  Caryatis,  and  that 
virgins  danced  in  honour  of  her  in  the  festive 
processions.  The  architects,  ever  in  search  of 
graceful  forms,  ornamented  their  temples  with 
colonnades,  somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  virgins 
in  procession  at  the  feast  of  Caryatis,  perhaps, 
too,  with  baskets  of  flowers,  (fcc.  on  their  heads ! 
Now,  between  the  two  etymons,  who  is  to  decide? 
and,  if  decided,  perhaps  I  might  ask,  cui  bonoV 

'Your  objection,'  said  the  champion  of  verbal 
derivations,  'certainly  proves  too  much,  since  the 
absence  of  absolute  certainty  would  utterly  extin- 
guish nearly  all  etymology.'  'I  should  regret 
that  result,'  said  I,  'all  that  I  protest  against  is 
that  ultraism,  which  seeks  in  far-fetched  and  fan- 
tastic roots,  and  in  extremely  remote  resemblances, 
the  origin  of  names,  and  then  builds  thereon 
equally  fanciful  conclusions  and  theories,  \vhich 
they  would  call  learning  and  knowledge !  whereas 
the  whole  may  consist  of  the  veriest  imaginings 
that  cost  no  little  research,  which  had  much  better 
have  been  employed  in  things  more  profitable.' 

'I  fear  you  and  1  are  destined  never  to  agree 
on  my  favourite  subject,'  said  the  Englishman, 
with  infinite  bonhomie,  'but  I   have   found  great 


THE    TRAVELLING   ETYMOLOGIST.  163 

amusement,  and  equal  profit,  in  this  pursuit ;  and 
few  things  are  more  delightful  to  me  tiian  to  look, 
for  instance,  over  the  map  of  England ;  and,  as 
Master  Nash  saith,  with  much  brain-tossing,  and 
skull-breaking,  resolve  the   names   therein  found, 
by   the    rules   of    etymology,    and   the    lights   of 
history.     Thus,  for   example,   our   Yarmouth,  of 
'Lenten  StufP  memory,  is  said  to  be  derived  from 
the   river  lerus^   at  whose   mouth  it  is  situate — 
hence   lernmouth,  which  by   the  natural  change 
of  i  into  Y,  and  e  into  a,  becomes  Yarmouth.' 

'This  may  be,  as  your  Master  Nash  hath  said,' 
rejoined  I,  'but  you  will  remember  that  Florence 
is  derived,  by  some  from  Jiorentia,  as  being 
situate  in  a  very  Jlowery  vale,  and  by  others  from 
Florentinus^  its  Roman  founder!  And,  'who  shall 
decide  when  doctors  disagree?' 

'And  yet,  I  would  by  no  means  proscribe  ety- 
mology; it  smacks  highly  of  scliolarship,  and, 
indeed,  is  such,  being  really  useful,  curious,  and 
eminently  entertaining,  when  wholly  stripped  of 
fancy,  and  guided  alone  by  judgment  and  well 
authenticated  facts — thus,  I  cannot  object  to  such 
an  etymon  as  is  given  to  the  word  mustard.  The 
original  name  of  the  plant,  you  know,  is  sinapis, 
the  pulverized  seeds  of  which  the  Arabians  were 
accustomed  to  mix  with  their  juice  of  the  grape, 
but  more  frequently,  perhaps,  with  their  arrack  or 
rice  wine.  In  after  times,  when  the  Italians  did 
the  same  thing,  in  order  to  impart  a  stronger 
pungency  to  their  light  wines,  they  called  the 
new  compound  mostoardo — burning  must;  and, 


164  THE    TRAVELLING   ETYMOLOGIST. 

as  the  sinapis  itself,  was  a  foreign  plant,  but  little 
known  among  them,  they  transferred  the  name 
of  the  compound  drink  to  the  substance  which 
they  added  to  the  must  of  their  grapes ;  and 
hence  our  word  mustard,  from  mosto-ardo.  So, 
likewise,  it  is  not  at  all  improbable  that  our  word 
ebriety — ebrietas,  comes  from  6na,  the  name  of 
a  well  known  drinking-cup  among  the  Greeks; 
and  not,  as  Dr.  Johnson  supposes,  from  the  Greek 
word  which  signifies  to  moisten.  It  is  quite 
probable,  also,  that  currants  are  so  called  from 
their  having  greatly  abounded  at  Corinth;  and 
the  word  buckwheat  may  be  a  corruption  of  heach- 
ivheatl — and,  in  fine,  the  French  word  poltron, 
probably  enough,  comes  from  pollux  truncatus, 
owing  to  the  fact  that  some  of  the  people  of  that 
country,  during  the  feudal  ages,  preferred  to  cut 
off  their  thumbs,  to  serving  in  the  wars — and 
hence  poltron  and  coward  are  now  synonomous 
words !' 

'I  am  most  happy,'  said  the  etymological  tra- 
veller, 'to  find  our  conversation  seems  to  be  gra- 
dually unveiling  to  you  the  beauties  and  utilities 
of  my  favourite  study,' — and  hereupon  onr  collo- 
quy terminated,  for  this  time,  as  we  had  then 
reached  the  Piazza  dl  Spagna ;  and  he  retired 
to  his  lodgings  there,  I  to  mine,  in  the  Via  di 
Condotti. 


BENVENUTO  CELLINI.  165 

NOTE  XIV. BENVENUTO  CELLINI. 

'Benvenuto  Cellini  ."  said  I,  musingly,  as  I 
contemplated  his  statue  of  Perseus  and  Medusa, 
in  the  Piazza  del  Granduca  of  Florence, — 'the 
jeweller,  engraver,  musician,  poet,  soldier,  sculptor, 
and  lover ;  and  in  all  so  truly  admirable !'  But 
what  I  then  thought,  and  mentally  said,  though 
now  repeated,  need  not  be  received,  but  with  some 
allowance — as  Italian  skies,  and  the  wonders  of 
nature  and  of  art,  which  every  where  abound  in 
this  enchanting  country,  are  too  apt  to  overcharge 
the  mind  with  delusive  feelings,  to  admit  at  once 
of  sound  and  unmixed  reflections. 

CeUini  was  undoubtedly  a  rare  and  brilliant 
genius;  and  no  one  life,  with  which  I  am  ac- 
quainted, is  so  rich  as  his  in  the  finest  materials 
of  interest  and  instruction.  And  we  find  them 
so  recorded  :  for  he  has  proved  himself  the  prince 
of  autobiographers.  How  spirited  and  glowing  is 
his  narrative,  how  winning  and  faith- inspiring  his 
candour  and  veracity,  and  how  truly  charming  is 
the  variety  of  incidents  which  chequered  his  re- 
markable life,  from  infancy  to  old  age  !  It  is  rare, 
indeed,  to  find  the  oft-repeated  corruscations  of 
exalted  genius  so  constantly  followed,  as  in  him, 
by  useful  and  eflicient  results  •,  and  it  is  equally  so 
to  meet  the  most  flattering  successes,  alternating  so 
strangely  with  the  most  signal  misfortunes.  But 
Cellini's  destiny,  in  early  life,  seemed  to  take  its 
rise  from  two  very  trivial  causes,  and  afl!brds 
another  among  a  thousand  proofs,  that  a  king  or 
15 


166  BENVENUTO    CELLINI. 

a  cobler,  a  hero  or  a  hermit,  a  palace  or  a  prison, 
are  often  as  much  the  offspring  of  accident,  as  of 
meritorious  exertion,  and  that  the  same  genius 
which  takes  one  to  the  scaffold,  may,  under  cir- 
cumstances, place  another  on  the  seat  of  power. 
It  seems  that  Cellini's  performances  on  the  flute 
were  so  admirable  as  to  command  the  strongest 
praises  of  Pope  Clement  VII.  who  summoned  him 
into  his  service  ;  and  that  afterwards  a  dream 
decided  the  controversy  which  Cellini  had  with 
himself  then  ;  arad  his  faith  in  dreams  gave  him 
the  first  start  into  life — and  how  intimately  it  was 
connected  with  all  that  followed  may  be  found  in 
his  very  interesting  memoirs. 

But  to  return  to  the  statue  of  Perseus.  The 
author  of  this  beautiful  piece  of  sculpture  was  like- 
wise a  jeweller,  a  fine  musician,  a  poet,  a  brave 
soldier,  and  an  adventurous  lover.  And,  as  I  gazed 
on  the  statue,  meihought  I  could  easily  trace  the 
impressions  of  all  these  soul-stirring  arts.  The 
jeweller  of  those  days,  it  may  here  be  remarked, 
needed  a  much  more  exquisite  taste,  fertility  of 
invention,  and  accuracy  of  design,  than  those  who 
now  bear  that  name.  A  cardinal's  seal,  the  gold 
covering  of  a  missal,  a  crucifix  for  noble  hands,  the 
rich  devices  on  a  princess'  girdle,  a  magnificent 
chalice  for  papal  processions,  the  button  of  a  ponti- 
ficial  cope,  the  gorgeous  settings  of  a  pope's  jewels, 
and  the  feshioning  of  his  triple  diadem,  were,  each 
and  all,  matters  of  such  high  import  in  those  palmy 
days  of  'Holy  Mother  Church,'  as  to  command  the 
highest  order  of  talent  the  world  then  knew.     The 


BENVENUTO    CELLINI.  167 

artificer  of  such  graceful  ornaments,  in  which  love- 
liness of  form,  and  exquisiteness  of  workmanship 
were  ever  to  be  present,  found  in  sculpture  a  cog- 
nate art,  and  one  which  could  not  then  claim  that 
decided  superiority  accorded  to  it  in  earlier  times, 
and  which  it  has  since  reclaimed.  Cellini,  more- 
over, was  doubtless  a  better  sculptor  from  being 
among  the  first  of  flutists,  and  which  he  could  not 
have  been  without  much  music  in  his  soul,  and  a 
peculiar  delicacy  of  touch,  which,  when  transferred 
from  the  flute  to  the  block  of  marble,  rendered  his 
manipulations  so  successful.  In  like  manner  his 
poetical  vein  refined  his  imagination,  and  imparted 
to  his  sculpture  superadded  charms.  The  chivalry 
and  courage  of  a  true  soldier  also  brought  their 
offerings  to  him,  and  pointed  his  chissel  with  that 
matchless  daring,  freedom,  and  yet  caution  in  the 
details,  which  the  statue  of  Perseus  so  clearly 
manifests;  and  the  passion  of  the  devoted  lover 
gave  likewise  to  this  great  work  that  glow  and 
vitality  of  expression  which  we  see  distinctly 
marked  in  the  victorious  sons  of  Danue.  Such 
indeed  is  the  almost  indissoluble  connection  be- 
tween all  the  liberal  arts  and  sciences,  and  such 
their  dependence  on  most  of  the  passions  and 
afiections  of  the  mind,  that  the  muses  have  ever 
been  truly  represented  as  dancing  in  chorus,  and 
are  held  to  be  the  offspring  of  a  common  parent, 
and  the  most  affectionate  of  lovely  sisters. 

It  was  no  idle  fancy  then,  generated  by  soft 
Italian  skies,  and  the  profusion  of  beauties  that 
every  where  salute  the  eye  in  that  favoured  land, 


168  BENVENUTO    CELLINI. 

which  caused  me  to  see  in  the  Perseus,  and  in  the 
works,  generally,  of  this  great  artist,  the  lineaments 
of  his  diversified  education  and  accomplishments, 
and  of  the  various  passions  that  moved  the  inner 
man.     It  is  well,  however,  for  the  traveller,  when 
in  the  privacy  of  his  study  in  after  times,  to  chas- 
ten his  judgment  and  guard  against  the  control  of 
those   extraneous   and    factitious   influences,    that 
circumstances  may  create  in  Italy.     In  the  sober- 
ness  of  the  closet,  he   may  correct   those  hasty 
opinions,  which  the  crowd  of  so  much  loveliness 
of  nature  and  of  art  is  so  apt  to  occasion  :  for  how 
many   latent   and  refined    beauties,   (discoverable 
alone  to  the  eye  of  taste,)  are  spread  over  this  land 
of    the   clear  blue   empyrean — over   this   land   of 
mountain  snows  and  flowery  vales — this  land  of 
the  vine,  the  orange,  the  fig,  and  the  olive  !     How 
much  is  the  soul  excited  in  this  dominion  of  lavas 
and  of  subterranean  fires,  in  this  land  of  ancient 
ruins  and  of  modern  luxury,  of  priestly  supersti- 
tions, and  of  classical  and  moral  associations, — the 
land  of  painters,  of  poets,  of  musicians,  of  archi- 
tects, and  of  sculptors — the  land  of  the  witcheries 
of  fancy,  and  the  sublimities  of  varied  genius — a 
land  full  of  cascades,  of  grottoes,  of  the  reminis- 
cences of  sybils,  of  dryads,  and  of  nymphs — the 
region    of  the   'fell    Charybdis   and    the   howling 
Scylla' — -a  land  where  the  sunbeams  repose  on  the 
distant  hills,  reflecting  their  varied  and  gorgeous 
lights  from  the  windows  of  a  thousand  habitations, 
fantastically  perched  on  almost  inaccessible  cliff's, 
and  where  the  twilight  lingers  o;i  among  the  green 


BENVENUTO    CELLINI.  169 

valleys,  as  if  reluctant  to  part  with  so  much  beauty, 
or  to  cloud  them  in  the  shades  of  night! 

•Fair  Italy, 
Thou  art  the  garden  of  the  world,  the  home 
Of  all  Art  yields,  and  Nature  can  decree, 
Even  in  thy  desert  what  is  like  to  thee  ? 
Thy  very  weeds  are  beautiful,  thy  waste 
More  rich  than  other  clime's  fertility  ; 
Thy  wreck  of  glory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 
With  an  immaculate  charm  which  cannot  be  defaced.' 

Let  no  philosophic  cynic,  however,  scowl  ou 
the  fancies,  so  often  indulged  in  by  those  who  are 
fresh  from  Italy,  since  it  is  pecuUarly  a  land  of 
fancy ;  and,  perhaps,  no  stranger  has  ever  main- 
tained there,  an  undisturbed  and  sober  judgment. 
The  classical  Eustace  certainly  indited  many  false 
conceptions,  and  some  nonsense ;  and  even  the 
chaste,  accomplished,  terse,  and  thoughtful  For- 
syth, is  not  without  some  vain  imaginings.  If, 
then,  I  have  seen  in  the  productions  of  Cellini, 
traces  of  his  peculiar  education, — if  the  sculptor 
has  shown  to  my  mind  the  nice  manipulations  of 
the  jeweller,  the  chaste  touches  of  the  engraver, 
the  soul  of  the  musician,  the  fancy  of  the  poet,  the 
glow  of  the  lover,  the  chivalry  and  courage  of  the 
soldier,  blended  with  all  the  peculiar  excellences 
that  belong  to  the  chissel,  suffer  me  to  enjoy  my 
fancy,  if  it  be  one.  Time  and  absence  can,  alone, 
cure  such  aberrations  of  the  judgment.  In  the 
exact  sciences,  in  morals,  and  in  all  opinions 
which  essentially  affect  our  happiness  and  our 
principles,  criticism  can  scarce  bo  too  cautious : 
but  in  matters  of  mere  taste,  I  would  be  a  latiludi- 
15* 


170  BENVENUTO    CELLINI. 

narian,  and  permit  every  one  to  express  with  free- 
dom, even  his  most  random  feelings,  his  wildest 
opinions — for  cui  inalol  If  one  admires  Carlo 
Dolci  more  than  Raphael,  and  the  Last  Judgment 
of  Michael  Angelo  more  than  the  Communion  of 
Domenichino,  whom  does  it  injure?  Let  each 
give  the  best  reason  he  can  for  the  faith  that  is  in 
him ;  and  if  it  fail  to  convince,  it  has  done  no 
harm;  and  if  it  produce  conviction,  it  can  never 
be  on  the  many,  if  it  be  really  erroneous,  so  that 
the  standard  of  taste  remains  unshaken. 

But,  to  return  for  a  moment  to  Cellini.  The 
bronze  group  of  Perseus  and  Medusa,  with  the  ad- 
mirable basso-rehevo  on  the  pedestal,  has  always 
been  considered  his  chef  cfccuvre.  In  his  left  hand, 
Perseus  firmly  holds  the  snaky  head  of  Medusa, 
reeking  with  blood;  and  under  his  head  lies  the 
agonized  body,  the  hands  and  feet  of  which  are  en- 
twined in  each  other,  the  breasts  swelling  into  high 
relief,  and  tlie  neck,  from  which  the  head  had  just 
been  severed,  is  pouring  out  its  vital  current.  The 
right  arm,  in  deini-repose,  holds  the  victorious 
sword,  and  the  whole  figure  is  naked  except  the 
head,  which  bears  an  appropriate  and  beautiful  hel- 
met; and  the  feet,  which  have  the  winged  sandals 
of  Mercury.  The  two  faces  are  strikingly  contrast- 
ed with  each  other.  That  of  the  Gorgon  with  its 
horrid  serpent  locks,  is  distilling  blood,  and  is  full 
of  the  contortions  of  pain  ;  the  other  is  instinct 
with  the  high  soul  we  look  for  in  the  son  of  Jupi- 
ter and  Dauac,  in  the  moment,  too,  of  his  triumph 
over  the  formidable  race  of  Medusa  !     The  outline 


BENVENUTO    CELLINI.  171 

of  the  whole  group  is  extremely  graceful  and  tran- 
chant — but,  if  the  merest  amateur  may  venture  to 
find  any  fault,  I  should  unhesitatingly  condemn,  as 
in  extreme  bad  taste,  the  attempted  representation 
of  the  flow  of  blood  from  Medusa's  head,  grasped 
by  Perseus,  and   from  the  neck  of  the  body  on 
which  he  tramples  !     The  gush   of  blood  is  not 
only  excessive  in   the  particular  instance,  but  is 
essentially  dehors  the  art  of  sculpture,  and  belongs 
exclusively  to  the  painter,  or  to  the  poet.     It  is  not 
possible  to  represent  in  bronze,  or  even  in  marble, 
a  'flowing  current  of  the  purple  life-,'  nor  was  there 
the  least  occasion  for  it.     The  drops  of  blood  from 
which  Pegasus  and  Chrysaor  are  fabled  to  have 
sprung,  might  have  been  sufiiciently  represented, 
and  truthfully,  too,  but  in  a  manner  far  more  sub- 
dued, and  better  suited  to  the  powers  of  the  art ; 
for  no  imagination  can   realize,  in  the  solid  and 
colourless   mass  of  bronze   or   marble,  a   flowing 
stream  from  veins  and  arteries!  and  where  would 
be  the  essential  difference,  were  a  sculptor  to  peril 
his  reputation  in  an  attempt  to  present  in  such  ma- 
terials, the  falls  of  Tirni  or  of  Tivoli !     Nor  is  it 
within  the  province  of  sculpture  to  copy  nature  ; 
but  merely  so  to  represent  the  contours  of  loveli- 
ness, of  grace,  of  deformity,  and  of  sublimity;  and 
so  to  depict  by  lines,  such  lights  and  shades,  as 
reveal  the  feelings  and  passions  of  the  soul,  and 
produce  in  the  mind  a  state  generative  of  thought; 
and,  through  the  medium  of  imagination  and  judg- 
ment, to  till  up,  as  it  were,  the  perfect  outlines. 
Illusion  is  to  be  effected  by  the  sculptor's  art, 


172  BENVENUTO    CELLINI. 

neither  by  a  copy,  nor  yet  even  by  such  an  imita- 
tion, as  aims  at  the  realities  of  life;  the  impres- 
sion to  be  produced  is  an  abstraction  only,  not  an 
accurate  imitation,  else  would  it  be  in  taste  to 
colour  statues,  to  give  them  draperies  of  various 
hues,  to  insert  eyes  of  glass,  or  other  materials, 
true  to  the  life;  but  all  these  have  been  condemned 
of  genuine  taste.  In  fine,  sculpture,  be  it  in  wood, 
marble,  or  bronze,  can  recognize  but  a  single 
material,  but  a  single  colour — and  all  gilded  appli- 
ances, all  metallic  ornaments,  all  attempts  at  copy- 
ing the  works  of  nature  or  of  art,  in  her  colour- 
ings, and  m.inute  details,  are  foreign,  wholly,  to  the 
sculptor's  province.  And  though  Cellini  has  not 
attempted  either,  he  has  still  violated,  as  I  think, 
a  cognate  law,  in  his  vain  endeavour  to  imitate  the 
blood  flowing  en  9nasse,  from  the  neck  and  head  of 
Medusa — an  instance  of  false  taste  that  mars  the 
perfect  harmony  of  the  rest;  and  which,  in  tlie  pic- 
torial art,  or  in  the  more  humble  one  of  the  worker 
in  wax,  would  have  proved  a  faithful  copy  of  the 
reality. 

Cellini's  autobiography,  as  I  have  stated,  is  one 
of  incessant  interest,  and  of  truly  admirable  execu- 
tion. Never  was  there  a  more  naive  and  fsiithful 
history  of  individual  life.  His  own  great  genius, 
his  enthusiasm,  his  brilliant  successes,  his  sad  mis- 
fortunes, and  the  freaks  of  his  own  indomitable 
temper,  are  all  most  graphically  portrayed — nor  is 
he  at  all  sparing  in  his  delineation  of  those  little 
great  men,  whose  envy  and  malignity,  or  whose 
narrow   minds   so   often   marred,  and   sometimes 


BENVENUTO    CELLINI.  173 

proved  fatal,  to  his  happiness.  His  intercourse 
with  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany,  (his  unworthy- 
patron,)  the  gilded  but  miserable  slavery  in  which 
he  was  there  held,  his  numerous  vexations  and 
disappointed  hopes,  the  charlatan  deportment  of 
several  of  his  patrons,  their  ample  promises,  flatter- 
ing words,  and  slender  performances,  are  all  told 
with  evident  truth,  and  with  rare  felicity. 

But,  all  these  matters  were  detailed  in  too  unvar- 
nished a  manner  for  poor  Cellini's  safety,  had  he 
published  his  memoirs  during  his  life  !  And  even 
after  his  death,  the  manuscript  remained  in  dusty 
oblivion  for  nearly  two  centuries !  We  are  now  fully 
informed  of  the  many  base  and  mean  contrivances 
practised  on  Cellini  by  those  who  desired  to  profit 
by  the  labours  of  his  genius,  without  any  adequate 
consideration  ;  and  the  noble  successors  of  the 
Grand  Duke  Cosmo,  now  in  power,  can  scarce 
read  Cellini's  pages,  as  we  should  hope,  without 
a  deep  blush  for  the  ignoble  treatment  which  so 
great  a  master  had  received  at  the  hands  of  their 
progenitor,  and  countryman,  and  without  a  lively 
zeal  to  perpetuate  the  lustre  of  the  artist's  fame,  and 
even  to  honour  and  enrich  his  descendants,  if  there 
be  any  now  worthy  of  being  so  called. 

The  narrative  which  Cellini  gives  of  the  com- 
mencement, progress  and  completion  of  his  Perseus 
and  Medusa,  and  of  his  patron's  base  tergiversation 
respecting  the  honorarium  to  be  given  for  it,  which 
ended  in  a  curiously  devised  subtraction  of  a  por- 
tion even  of  the  admitted  paltry  sum  of  thirty- 
five  hundred  crowns,  to  which,  from  ten  thousand. 


174  BENVENUTO    CELLINI. 

it  had  been  gradually  reduced,  presents,  no  doubt, 
a  faithful  picture,  not  only  of  his  patron,  but  of  the 
genius  of  the  times,  in  which  magnificence  and 
meanness,  lavish  promises,  and  curtailed  perfor- 
mances, flattery  and  threats,  were  united  to  bring 
poor  artists  into  the  toils  of  their  nominally  noble 
patrons. 

To  the  lovers  of  genius  and  the  fine  arts,  it  may 
be  consolatory  to  know  that  Cellini,  after  a  life  of 
the  most  romantic  adventures,  charged  with  the 
sports  of  evil  and  of  good  fortune,  in  which  he 
was  often  an  object  of  the  bitterest  persecution,  or 
the  most  malignant  jealousies,  and  in  which  he 
endured  attempts  at  poisoning,  and  other  assassi- 
nations, and  suffered  a  most- savage  imprisonment 
in  the  very  castle  of  St.  Angelo,  which  he  had  so 
valiantly  defended — died  in  a  ripe  old  age,  and  was 
buried  with  much  funeral  pomp,  in  the  church  of 
the  Annunziata,  at  Florence ;  and  further,  that  a 
funeral  oration  in  praise  of  his  life,  his  moral  and 
intellectual  qualities,  and  his  great  works,  was  pro- 
nounced in  the  presence  of  an  assembled  multi- 
tude, accompanied  by  the  whole  body  of  academi- 
cians, and  the  company  of  sculptors — all  of  whom, 
with  eager  ears  took  in,  and  with  willing  hearts 
responded  to.  the  many  kind  things  that  were  said 
of  Benvenuto  Cellini — Jioio  that  he  reposed  with 
the  illustrious  dead! 

'After  life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well : 

Nor  steel,  nor  poison, 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing 
Can  touch  him  further.' 


PUBLIC   CEMETERIES.  175 

NOTE    XV. PUBLIC    CEMETERIES. 

Few  subjects  are  of  more  intense  interest  than 
those  which  relate  to  the  various  modes  of  inter- 
ment  adopted  in  all  nations  and  ages — the  rites 
and  ceremonials  which  often  accompanied  them — 
the  holy  and  sometimes  fantastic  superstitions 
which,  from  time  to  time,  arose — and,  above  all, 
the  sublime  images  and  beautiful  fancies  of  the 
priests,  of  the  poets,  the  painters  and  the  sculptors, 
when  Death,  the  Grave,  and  the  Resurrection  were 
the  themes  of  their  deepest  and  most  solitary 
thoughts. 

How  much  of  philosophy  and  solemn  reflec- 
tion, what  varied  and  brilliant  imaginations,  what 
holy  and  touching  sentiments,  what  fearful  fore- 
bodings, what  fascinating  hopes,  what  sweet  re- 
pose, what  thrilling  terror  hover  around  the  things 
of  death  and  the  grave !  Would  we  be  fully 
persuaded  of  man's  constant  and  ardent  pant- 
ing after  even  terrene  immortality,  we  have  but 
to  visit  the  splendid  mausoleums — the  sepulchral 
cities  under  ground — the  towering  and  ever  endu- 
ring pyramids — the  cenotaphs  and  gorgeous  sarco- 
phagi— the  chapels — the  chambers  of  repose — the 
campo  santos,  and  the  modern  but  no  less  beautiful 
cemeteries  of  Pcre  la  Chaise,  of  Liverpool,  of  Mount 
Auburn,  near  Boston,  and  of  Laurel  Hill,  in  the 
vicinity  of  Philadelphia ;  these,  all  speak  to  us  in 
language  never  to  be  mistaken, — in  a  tongue  com- 
prehended by  nations,  and  lineages,  and  tribes,  of 
all  times,  and  of  all  creeds ;  for,  be  they  Pagans,  or 


176  PUBLIC    CEMETERIES. 

Jews,  or  Christians,  learned  or  illiterate,  man  is 
ever  the  same  in  his  dread  of  annihilation — in  his 
abhorrence  of  oblivion — in  his  desire  to  be  remem- 
bered, or  in  some  way  known  in  after  times — 
and  finally,  in  his  hopes  of  earthly  as  well  as  of 
heavenly  perpetuity.  A  feeling  so  universal,  so 
indomitable,  so  truly  natural,  can  scarce  be  wrong; 
and,  hke  many  of  our  most  noble  sentiments  and 
principles  of  action,  becomes  so,  only  by  the  per- 
version of  ambition,  or  the  abuse  of  riches.  The 
grateful  living  should  respect  the  virtuous  dead — 
and  the  virtuous  dying  should  have  the  hope  of 
being  gratefully  remembered :  and  though  the 
vicious  and  the  ignoble  are  sometimes  entombed 
in  richly  sculptured  marbles,  and  repose  along  side 
the  more  humble  slabs  which  cover  the  remains  of 
their  virtuous  superiors,  still,  the  congregated  mem- 
bers in  these  cities  of  the  dead,  are  not  wanting  in 
the  means  of  our  justly  distinguishing  the  merito- 
rious ;  whilst  ihey  afford  to  those,  of  meek  and  for- 
giving temper,  fit  occasions  for  the  holy  ejacula- 
tions— requiescat  iti  pace — sit  ilia  terra  levis!  Well 
may  we  say  with  Sir  Thomas  Brown — ^Mati  is  a 
liable  aiiimal,  splendid  in  ashes,  and  pompous  in  the 
grave — solemnizing  nativities  and  deaths  with  equal 
lustre,  and  not  omitting  ceremonies  of  bravery  i?i 
the  infamy  of  his  nature.'' 

It  were  indeed,  a  vain  hope,  by  strong  walls, 
and  the  most  solid  monuments,  to  preserve  intact 
from  the  all-consuming  influences  of  time,  either 
the  remains  or  the  memories,  of  even  the  most 
illustrious  of  our  dead.     Families,  and  tribes,  and 


PUBLIC    CEMETERIES.  177 

dynasties,  and  nations,  are  ultimately  and  surely 
lost  in  the  depths  of  this  great  invisible  ocean, 
which  is  without  limits  ;  and  when  even  Egyptian 
ingenuity,  with  its  pyramids,  and  subterranean  ma- 
sonry— its  well  cemented  sarcophagi,  and  bodies 
embalmed  in  numerous  cerements  and  'sweet  con- 
sistencies,'— in  many  aromatic  and  desiccative  pre- 
parations, has  almost  wholly  failed  to  perpetuate 
either  the  one  or  the  other,  all  that  we  can  reason- 
ably look  for  in  our  similar  endeavours  to  confound 
eternity  with  time,  is  such  a  preservation  of  their 
memory  as  shall  probably  outlive  all  generations 
with  whom  we  can  claim  even  an  ideal  interest 
or  sympathy : — for,  when  'Nimrod  is  lost  in  Orion, 
and  Osyris  in  the  dog-star,'  what  boots  it  to  talk  of 
monume.nts,  or  to  hope  for  a  patent  from  oblivion? 
And  here  again,  hath  the  same  Sir  Thomas  Brown 
beautifully  said,  ^all  is  vanity^  feeding  the  wind, 
and  folly :  for  the  Egyptian  mummies,  which  Cam- 
byses,  or  time  hath  spared,  avarice  noio  consumeth. 
Mummy  hath  hecom.e  m,erchandise,  Misraim  cures 
wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  balsams  P 

And  though  these  are  truths  which  time  hath 
revealed  in  a  thousand  ways,  and  assuring  us  so 
must  it  for  ever  remain —  yet  is  not  the  obligation 
in  the  least  diminished,  to  pay  such  respect  to  the 
remains  and  memories  of  our  departed  relatives, 
friends,  patriots,  and  illustrious  citizens,  as  shall 
testify  our  own  love  and  gratitude,  and  veneration — 
whilst  it  may  afford  to  many  future  generations, 
the  chance  of  reaping  from  it  whatever  of  instruc- 
tion, to  heart  and  mind,  can  be  thus  conveyed. 
16 


178  PUBLIC    CEMETERIES. 

I  always  think  better  of  that  man's  heart,  who 
in  the  midst  of  life  contenjplates  its  close,  and  who 
turns  from  the  toil  of  worldly  strife,  to  provide  a 
secure  resting  place  for  the  bodies  of  those  he 
loves,  when  their  spirits  have  sought,  or  shall  seek 
their  higher  abodes — it  is  a  thoughtful  provision, 
well  adapted  calmly  to  seduce  the  mind  from  pre- 
sent enjoyments,  to  the  contemplation  of  the  far 
greater  riches  of  eternity.  Is  it  not  a  setting  up, 
upon  the  great  highway  of  life,  a  visible  and 
enduring  beacon,  pointing  us  to  the  country  we 
approach, — a  country  of  assembled  nations,  the 
land,  not  only  of  our  forefathers,  but  of  all  the 
sons  of  men ;  and  admonishing  us,  not  only  of  its 
reality,  but  of  the  certainty  and  rapidity  with 
which  we  are  all  coming  to  it? 

How  appropriate  is  it  in  the  father  of  a  family, 
who,  to  the  establishment  which  it  is  the  labour  of 
his  life  to  afford  his  children,  is  equally  mindful 
to  add  that  last  gift  which  seems  to  make  his  pro- 
vision so  complete  ! — In  time,  such  a  homage  from 
the  living  has  not  only  the  gracefulness  which  ever 
attends  the  performance  of  a  duty,  but  it  carries 
with  it  a  silent  invitation  so  to  use  the  rest  of  life's 
goods,  that  this  last  may  not  be  unhonoured. 
Every  one,  moreover,  is  extremely  apt  to  look  more 
kindly  on  this  post  mortem  providence  of  others, 
from  a  lurking  desire  that  his  own  mortal  remains 
should  repose  in  decent  and  unmolested  quietude. 

For  myself  I  confess,  I  have  none  of  that 
vaunted  stoicism  which  inculcates  entire  insensi- 
bility to   the  fate  of  the  body  after  death ;   nor 


PUBLIC    CEMETERIES.  179 

would  I  claim  association  with  those  who  desire  to 
advance  science,  by  affecting  to  know  no  difference 
between  the  quiet  of  the  grave,  and  the  rude  as- 
saults of  resurrectionists,  or  the  subsequent  mani- 
pulations in  an  anatomical  theatre  ! 

A  life  adorned  in  its  course  by  the  practice  of 
christian  virtues,  and  prolonged  through  many  liv- 
ing generations  of  affectionate  relatives,  to  a  vigor- 
ous old  age — a  death-bed,  free  from  bodily  pain 
and  sustained  by  the  mens  coiiscia  recti — a  peaceful 
sepulture,  without  osten^tation,  but  suited  in  all 
respects  to  the  character  and  station  in  life — and 
finally,  a  tomb  sacred  and  for  ever  undisturbed, 
seem  to  fill  up  the  measure  of  man's  just  hopes — 
the  design  of  existence  on  this  side  of  eternity. 
Indifference,  therefore,  to  respectful  and  enduring 
interment,  ought  to  shock  our  sensibilities  ;  whilst 
the  contemplation  of  those  desecrations  of  the 
grave  occasioned  by  the  encroachments  of  cities, 
the  opening  of  new  streets,  the  cold  and  calculating 
exercise  of  corporate  or  municipal  power,  and  the 
disgusting  venal  offerings  to  the  dissecting  tables ; 
or,  in  fine,  any  other  cause  that  brings  us  to  a 
second  intimacy  with  the  remains  of  the  inhumed, 
is  so  strongly  revolting  to  every  feeling  and  well- 
ordered  mind,  that  secured  cemeteries  are  destined, 
as  we  think,  soon  to  become  among  the  most 
favoured  and  prominent  features  in  the  civihzation 
of  the  present  age. 

To  me,  then,  it  is  very  agreeable  to  sec  my 
fellow  mortals,  (with  the  thoughtfulness  of  men 
who  are  born  to  die,  and  the  courage  of  men  who 


160  PUBLIC    CEMETERIES. 

have  so  lived  as  to  banish  the  fear  of  death,)  pre- 
pare their  own  sepulchres,  and  those  for  such  as 
are  most  dear  to  them — and,  in  so  doing,  assemble 
about  the  hallowed  spot,  all  those  appropriate  orna- 
ments and  emblems  of  7nortality  and  of  immor- 
tality, best  suited  to  awaken  and  cherish  mournful 
feelings  in  regard  to  the  former,  and  the  brightest 
hopes  as  to  the  latter. 

The  refined  nations  of  antiquity  paid  great 
honours  to  their  dead.  The  expensive  embalm- 
ing, the  eternal  pyramids,  gorgeous  mausoleums, 
and  deeply  carved  sarcophagi  of  the  Egyptians 
and  Greeks — the  many  chaste  tombs  that  line  the 
Roman  ways,  as  those  of  Cecilia  Metella,  of  Scipio, 
Caius  Cestius,  Augustus,  and  of  Hadrian,  which 
in  part  remain ;  as  also  those  recently  revealed, 
in  perfect  integrity,  in  the  streets  of  Pompeii, 
and  the  numerous  beautiful  chapels,  and  extensive 
catacombs,  and  chambers  of  repose  of  the  early 
christians,  and  the  proud  sepulchres  erected  in 
the  primitive  churches,  are  striking  proofs  of  their 
deep  veneration  for  those  mortal  tenements,  once 
instinct  with  the  souls  of  heroes,  of  scholars,  and 
of  those  whom  they  best  loved. 

It  is,  however,  not  a  little  remarkable  how  many 
ancient  tombs,  and  even  monuments  to  perpetuate 
other  more  important  events  than  the  death  of 
individuals,  are  wholly  destitute  of  inscription ! 
How  many  thousand  sarcophagi  are  there,  of  mar- 
ble, granite,  or  alabaster,  with  their  five  sides  per- 
fect, and  adorned  with  much  laborious  and  goodly 
sculpture,  and  yet  no  inscription  to  tell  us  that  this 


PUBLIC    CEMETERIES.  181 

is  Hector's,  that  Priam's,  this  Homer's  and  that 
Alexander's  !  The  urns,  moreover,  which  con- 
tained their  ashes,  and  the  tombs  which  received 
them,  are  often  equally  silent  as  to  whose  remains 
they  honoured  and  preserved — the  tradition  being 
presumed  to  be  co-extensive  with  the  endurance  of 
the  solid  marble ;  and,  as  one  Forimondns  saith, 
'sepulchrorum  nunquam  intermoritur  memoria' — 
the  memory  of  the  matter  to  be  perpetuated  by  the 
tombstones,  continues  for  ever.  It  is  quite  proba- 
ble moreover,  that  but  for  this  omission,  many 
monuments  and  tombs  would  have  been  more 
carefully  preserved ;  we  might  now  have  the  mon- 
ument of  stones  which  Joshua  commanded  the 
Israelites  to  erect,  as  a  memorial  unto  their  chil- 
dren forever;  and  also  that  mentioned  by  Euse- 
bius,  as  raised  by  the  pious  and  grateful  woman 
whom  our  Saviour  cured  of  the  bloody  issue ;  and, 
perhaps,  a  hundred  others,  which,  being  without 
inscription,  could  not  be  preserved  by  vague  tradi- 
tions, and  became  especially  liable  to  destruction, 
after  the  traditions  themselves  were  gone.  The 
Romans,  in  this  respect,  were  generally  more  care- 
ful, though  some  of  the  tombs  of  Pompeii  are  (as 
well  as  I  remember)  without  a  name. 

Public  cemeteries  were  established  by  the  an- 
cients, and  were  no  less  magnificent  than  exten- 
sive. That  on  the  border  of  the  lake  Acherusia, 
in  Egypt,  is  celebrated  for  its  tribunal  composed 
of  forty-two  judges,  who  passed  sentence  on  the 
life  and  character  of  the  deceased — which,  if 
unfavorable,  excluded  them  from  interment  in  the 
16* 


182  PUBLIC    CEMETERIES. 

cemetery  beyond  the  lake,  and  consigned  them 
to  an  ignominious  grave  in  Tartarus !  and,  in 
like  manner,  the  Greeks  had  their  Acheron,  or 
Elisout,  and  their  Tartarus.  But,  among  the  nu- 
merous cemeteries  of  more  modern  days,  and  of 
our  own  time,  we  have  no  other  barrier  to  inter- 
ment within  their  walls,  than  that  which  denies 
all  christian  burial,  viz :  self-murder — and,  some- 
times, execution  for  an  infamous  crime. 

The  Catholics,  however,  in  their  cemeteries,  go 
a  step  further,  and  occlude  all  who  have  not  died 
within  the  pale  of  their  church ;  and  hence  it  is 
that,  in  many  of  the  continental  Catholic  countries, 
there  are  public  cemeteries  dedicated  to  those  who 
are  strangers  to  their  faith.  The  Campo- Santos, 
so  usual  in  Europe,  are  among  the  most  interesting 
objects  that  arrest  a  traveller's  attention — some  are 
public,  others  appertain  to  certain  monastic  estab- 
lishments; but  wherever  found,  they  manifest  the 
respect  the  living  would  pay  to  the  dead.  In  the 
cloistered  cemetery  at  Pisa,  besides  its  gothic 
splendour,  its  sculptures,  and  its  venerable  fres- 
coes, piety  sought  to  give  additional  interest  to 
the  place,  by  earth  brought  by  the  crusaders  from 
Jerusalem;  and  this  holy  soil,  though  nine  feet 
deep,  is  still  preserved  with  great  care  from  petty 
transportations.  It  is  computed  that  not  less  than 
nine  hundred  vessels,  such  as  were  used  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  must  have  been  required  for 
the  conveyance  of  these  two  acres  of  'sanctified 
mould !' 


PUBLIC    CEMETERIES.  183 

In  the  Carthusian  Monastery,  of  the  Certosa, 
near  Bologna,  there  is  also  a  cemetery,  which, 
though  not  large,  is  of  singular  beauty.  The 
entrance  is  by  an  appropriate  portal,  on  the  piers 
of  which  are  placed  a  colossal  statue  of  grief. 
The  walls  are  shelved,  and  on  these  are  deposited 
numerous  skulls  of  the  Carthusians,  who  have 
died  in  the  monastery  during,  perhaps,  many  cen- 
turies. These  are  labelled  with  the  name  of  the 
individuals  to  whom  they  belonged.  The  whole 
establishment  is  filled  with  flowers,  with  orange, 
citron,  and  myrtle  trees;  and  more  resembles  an 
odoriferous  conservatory  of  nature's  most  beautiful 
shrubs  and  flowers,  than  a  sepulchre,  or  repository 
for  man's  mortal  remains !  Beautiful  thought ! 
thus  to  blend  with  the  mementoes  of  death  the 
fairest  and  freshest  of  Flora's  garniture, — verdant 
and  flowery  canopies  impending  over  tombs,  with 
their  mouldering  and  perishing  relics  ! 

Another  mode  of  preserving  the  memory  of  the 
dead,  and  one  a  good  deal  practised  in  Europe, 
consists  in  a  careful  preparation  of  the  bones,  and 
arranging  them  in  a  variety  of  fantastic  forms,  as 
lamps,  chandeliers,  pyramids,  wreathes,  &c.,  and 
decorating  therewith  the  walls  of  some  gloomy 
crypt,  or  subterraneous  cemetery !  I  remember 
my  mixed  sensations  of  astonishment,  horror,  and 
gratification  at  these  ingenious  and  curious  fancies, 
on  entering  the  catacomb  of  the  Capuchin  Monas- 
tery at  Rome.  My  belted,  shorn,  and  sandalled 
guide  recognized  the  bones  of  some  friend,  in 
many  of  these  devices!    and,    in    certain   conspi- 


184  PUBLIC    CEMETERIES. 

cuous  corners,  were  the  perfect  skeletons,  perhaps, 
of  some  more  holy  father  of  the  church.  As 
well  as  I  could  learn,  there  were  four  progressive 
stages  to  which  each  body  was  subjected — first, 
an  ordinary  interment,  for  a  year  or  more — second- 
ly, interment  under  holy  earthy  brought  from  Jeru- 
salem by  the  crusaders — thirdly,  the  entire  skele- 
ton, duly  cleansed  and  prepared,  and  then  placed 
for  some  years,  in  an  appropriate  part  of  the  crypt; 
and  lastly,  an  arrangement  of  the  bones  in  innu- 
merable forms,  to  grace  the  walls,  and  to  admonish 
all  comers  in,  that, 

'When  our  souls  shall  leave  this  dwelling, 
The  glory  of  one  fair  and  virtuous  action 
Is  above  all  the  'scutcheons  on  our  tomb, 
Or  silken  banners  over  us.' 

I  have  been  led  to  the  foregoing  reflections  by 
a  recent  visit  to  Laurel  Hill  Cemetery,  a  noble 
and  most  praiseworthy  enterprise  by  a  few  of  the 
living,  in  behalf  of  the  many  who  are  dead,  or 
to  die. 

Not  all  the  marble  magnificence  of  the  proud 
city  in  whose  environs  it  is  situate,  her  Banks 
and  her  Exchanges, — nor  yet  the  splendor  of  her 
ornate  Churches,  nor  yet  those  monuments  of  her 
benevolence — her  Colleges,  and  her  Hospitals,  nor 
her  far-famed  Water-works,  could  fill  my  mind 
with  half  the  admiration,  or  enlarge  my  soul 
with  a  tythe  of  the  salutary  train  of  thoughts, 
as  the  moral  beauty,  the  classic  embellishments, 
and  the  sacred  purposes  of  this  deliglufiil  Reposi- 
tory of  the  Dead !     This  spot  is  forever  dedicated 


PUBLIC    CEMETERIES.  185 

to  the  uses  of  a  public  Cemetery,  in  which  are 
to  repose  the  wise,  the  good  and  the  powerful — 
and  possiblj'  the  simple-headed,  the  mere  world- 
ling, the  recluse,  and  the  half-forgotten,  who  are 
living — to  be  born — and  to  die  in  this  now  power- 
ful and  growing  metropolis.  It  consists  of  an 
enclosed  space  of  about  thirty  acres,  comprising 
every  variety  of  scenery,  elevated  in  situation, 
and,  in  all  respects  of  a  proper  soil.  It  is  distant 
some  three  miles  from  the  city,  upon  a  wide 
avenue,  known  as  the  Ridge  road ;  and  in  ap- 
proaching it  the  visiter  passes  the  Girard  College, 
and,  by  a  slight  deflection  may  stop  at  Fairmount, 
the  Prison,  (fcc.  &c. 

The  entrance  to  the  cemetery  is  by  an  arched 
portal,  passing  through  a  building  of  great  archi- 
tectural beauty,  and  which  at  once  strikes  the 
beholder  as  peculiarly  appropriate  in  style  and 
embellishment.  In  the  front  it  presents  an  im- 
posing colonnade  of  eight  columns  of  the  Roman 
Doric  order,  surmounted  by  a  correspondent  en- 
tablature ;  this,  again,  supports  a  ballustrade,  and 
the  whole  is  finished  by  placing  immediately  over 
the  gateway  a  funeral  urn,  appropriate  in  its  de- 
sign, and  beautiful  as  an  ornament.  In  the  portico, 
upon  each  side  of  the  gateway,  is  a  niche  for  the 
reception  of  emblematic  statuary,  and  the  whole 
effect  of  the  entrance-building  is  made  still  more 
grand  and  imposing,  by  a  continuation  upon  eacii 
flank  of  a  series  of  lesser  colunms,  forming  a  colon- 
nade in  the  same  general  style  as  the  building  itself, 
and  which  apparently  much  magnifies  its  extent. 


186  PUBLIC    CEMETERIES. 

Once  inducted  through  this  chaste  and  imposing 
portal,  and  pursuing  his  walk  but  a  few  steps, 
the  visiter  finds  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  scene 
of  surpassing  natural  beauty.  Lawns  of  velvet 
turf,  gravel  walks  stretching  off  every  where, 
seemingly  into  the  entanglements  of  a  labyrinth ; 
deep  and  impenetrable  shades  from  lofty  oaks ; 
the  tristful  grace  of  bending  willows;  the  perfumes 
of  many  flowers ;  and  the  melody  of  birds,  all 
unite  in  forming  a  scene  as  truly  delightful  to  the 
senses,  as  it  is  genial  to  those  sweet  tempers  of 
the  mind,  which  are  so  apt  to  manifest  themselves 
in  these  abodes  of  the  lamented  and  honoured 
dead. 

Upon  the  west  side  of  the  enclosure  the  scene 
becomes  indescribably  beautiful.  The  spectator 
approaches  over  grounds  nearly  level,  until  he 
stands  upon  a  bank  whose  precipitous  sides  are 
covered  with  massive  rocks,  time-worn  and  moss- 
grown  ;  whilst,  here  and  there,  are  seen  some 
hardy  evergreens  Avhich  have  thrust  their  roots 
within  the  clefts,  and  drawing  thence  their  slen- 
der sustenance,  expand  above  in  shady  trees,  or 
in  more  humble  shrubs.  Here  the  kalmia  delights 
to  expand  its  showy  blossoms,  and  the  hemlocks, 
pines  and  spruces  blend  their  foliages  with  the 
broader  leaves  of  numerous  other  trees — whilst 
every  little  tuft  of  earth  hanging  loosely  on  the 
rocks,  is  garnished  with  flowers  of  various  hues. 

At  the  foot  of  the  precipice  glides  the  placid 
Schuylkill,  here  widened  to  the  dimensions  of  a 
lake,   whose   unrufllcd   bosom  sends   back  to  the 


PUBLIC    CEMETERIES.  187 

eye  of  the  beholder,  the  reflected  image  of  the 
beauties  which  encompass  him.  The  whole  is 
expressive  of  deep  repose,  rather  heightened  than 
dispelled,  by  the  distant  view  of  commercial  acti- 
vity on  the  opposite  banks,  where  the  passage 
to  and  fro  of  the  canal  boats  gives  animation  to 
the  landscapes,  whilst  intervening  distance  'lends 
enchantment  to  the  view,'  by  taking  from  the 
busy  stir  its  noise  and  grossness.  It  is  this  rocky 
hill  side  with  its  trees,  its  shrubbery,  its  numerous 
flowers,  vines  and  tendrils — all  of  nature's  own 
planting,  that  to  me  was  the  most  enchanting — 
there,  on  a  tiny  peninsula,  jutting  somewhat  into 
the  river,  I  mused  for  a  while,  and  thought  that 
even  a  grave,  nestled  in  so  recluse  a  spot,  had 
many  charms :  this,  of  all  the  rest,  seemed  to  me 
the  most  attractive  for  a  burial  place ;  and  indeed 
the  whole  hill-side  seems  destined,  at  no  remote 
day,  to  be  the  favourite  spot — and,  like  the  banks, 
of  the  Nile,  will  spread  its  monuments  and  tombs 
from  the  water's  edge  to  the  very  summits  of  these 
rocks. 

The  improvement  of  the  property,  with  refer- 
rence  to  its  uses,  appears  to  have  been  most  judi- 
ciously attended  to.  There  are  spacious  carriage 
houses  for  shelter  from  inclement  weather;  here, 
also,  are  receiving-vaults  for  the  temporary  depo- 
site  of  bodies,  from  any  cause,  not  prepared  for 
formal  interment — a  neat  gothic  chapel  for  the 
performance  of  funeral  service  when  desired — 
commodious  rooms  for  the  retirement  of  relatives 
and  mourning  friends,  with  other  apartments  for 


188  EVENTS    HOW    RELATED    TO 

the  reception  of  those  attendants  at  the  obsequies, 
not  so  closely  connected  with  the  deceased — and, 
finally,  various  superintendents  and  competent 
agents  are  ever  present  to  provide  for,  and  conduct 
the  business  and  solemn  duty  of  interment. 

Such  pious  and  tasteful  manifestations  of  respect 
from  the  living  to  the  dead,  must  originate  and 
be  sustained,  in  our  country,  by  individual  enter- 
prise. We  have  no  imperial  treasures,  no  rich 
ecclesiastical  revenues,  no  conventual  fraternities 
for  such  works  of  splendour  and  munificence ; 
but,  with  us,  every  citizen  who  has  a  heart,  who 
loves  his  wife,  children,  and  friends  ;  all  who  have 
refined  sentiments,  and  who  would  do  honour  to 
the  memory  of  the  sage,  the  statesman,  the  war- 
rior and  the  patriot,  lend  a  willing  aid  to  the 
consecration  of  repositories,  in  which  are  to  lie 
the  venerated  remains  of  their  distinguished  coun- 
trymen, of  their  matrons,  their  sons,  and  their 
lovely  daughters. 


NOTE      XVI.  EVENTS,      HOW      RELATED      TO      REMOTE 

CIRCUMSTANCES. 

'Do  not  talk  to  me  of  chance^  said  Pampiiilus, 
'sound  philosophy  knows  of  no  such  thing ;  for,  if 
by  chance  you  simply  mean  an  unknown  cause,  I 
agree  with  you — but  if  you  use  the  word,  as  Mr. 
Hume  has  done,  to  denote  the  absence  of  any 
cause,  it  is  obviously  absurd.'  In  this  I  could  not 
but  concur  with  Pamphilus,  as  every  event  must 
have  its  cause,  however  inscrutable  that  may  be. 


REMOTE    CIRCUMSTANCES.  189 

But  he  proceeded:  'So  far  from  nature  tolerating 
such  a  thing  as  chance,  I  agree  with  Leibnitz,  and 
beUeve  that  all  causes  and  all  events  that  ever 
existed,  or  that  ever  shall  exist,  are  allied;  and, 
therefore  is  it  that  I  insist  upon  my  previous 
remark  which  seems  so  much  to  have  surprised 
you,  that  had  dancitig  been  wholly  unknown, 
John  the  Baptist  would  never  have  been  be- 
headed !  in  reply  to  this  you  have  merely  spoken 
of  chances ! — but,  is  it  not  manifest  that  the  dan- 
cing of  Herodias'  daughter  Salome,  caused  plea- 
sure to  Herod — which  pleasure  caused  his  promise 
to  the  niece — which  promise,  (after  the  fashion  of 
the  times,)  caused  the  oath — which  oath  affected 
the  Tetrarch's  conscience,  and  which  conscience 
occasioned  the  beheading  of  the  Baptist,  when  it 
was  demanded  of  Herod,  in  execution  of  his  pro- 
mise? and  here,  as  you  find,  are  all  the  links 
united,  from  the  dancing  down  to  the  death !' 

I  had  ofien  heard  Pamphilus  discourse  thus 
upon  his  favourite  notion  of  the  'Law  of  Conti- 
nuity,'' derived  from  the  German  philosopher  whom 
he  had  just  named.  'The  dancing  of  Herodias' 
daughter,  no  doubt,'  replied  I,  'was  a  fact  con- 
nected with  the  death  in  point  of  circumstance ; 
and  all  events  must  have  their  circumstances — 
but  whether  every  circumstance  be  a  cause,  and 
whether  sound  philosophy  directs  us  to  connect 
them  all,  ad  infinitum  as  links  in  a  chain  of  causes 
essential  to  produce  a  given  effect,  is  the  question 
between  us.  You  should  also  bear  in  mind  the 
Tetrarch's  anger  against  John — his  unlawful  love 
17 


190  EVENTS,    HOW    RELATED    TO 

for  Herodias — her  desire  to  be  avenged  on  the 
Baptist,  who  had  opposed  the  union — that  John 
was  then  in  prison  at  her  instance — that  Herod 
sought  the  death,  but  feared  the  multitude,  as 
they  regarded  Jolm  as  a  prophet — and  that,  wiien 
the  request  was  made  by  the  niece  of  her  uncle, 
at  Herodias'  solicitation,  that  the  Baptist's  head 
should  be  given  in  a  charger,  the  dancing  was  a 
mere  collateral  circumstance,  which  set  all  the 
antecedent  causes  into  active  operation. 

'But,  under  your  Law  of  Continuity,  to  say  that 
had  dancing  been  unknown,  the  Baptist  would 
have  lived,  is  to  make  the  whole  universe  a  mere 
machine — for  you  should  also  remember  that 
Herodias  might  not  have  made  the  murderous 
suggestion — her  daughter  might  have  refused  the 
cruel  agency,  if  made — Herod's  conscience  might 
have  insisted  that  the  request  was  altogether  with- 
out the  limits  of  the  promise — and  yet  the  Baptist 
might  have  met  the  same  fate  from  an  iiundred 
other  causes.'  'What  you  have  said,'  rejoined 
Pamphilus,  'is  very  true,  if  you  look  merely  at 
the  surface  of  things, — but  no  one  of  your  poten- 
tials did  happen,  and  I  insist  that  not  one  of  them 
could  have  happened ;  what  has  happened  is  the 
only  thing  that  ever  could  have  happened ;  all 
circumstances  are  causes,  for  or  against  an  event, 
and  every  event  must  have  happened — an  antici- 
pated event  that  has  not  happened,  could  not  have 
happened ;  and  these  positions  are  all  proved  by 
Leibnitz's  ''Principle  of  the  Sujficieyit  Reuso7i,''  by 
his  doctrine  of  ^Pre-established  Harmony^''  and  his 


REMOTE    CIRCUMSTANCES.  191 

great  ^Law  of  Continuitif — all  of  which  clearly 
establish  three  things,  firsts  that  nothing  can  hap- 
pen without  a  reason  why  it  should  be  so,  rather 
than  the  contrary;  secondly,  that  there  is  a  fixed 
series  of  thoughts,  desires,  emotions,  volitions,  &c. 
each  with  correspondent  actions  of  the  body,  so 
admirably  suited  to  each  other,  that  they  all  seem 
to  be  the  combinations  of  mere  cause  and  effect; 
and,  thirdly,  the  crowning  law  of  continuity  gives 
the  like  fixed  concatenation  as  between  all  other 
existences,  events,  and  truths  ;  so  that  every  thing, 
moral  as  well  as  physical,  that  exists,  ever  did 
exist,  or  which  ever  shall  exist,  is  thus  connected. 

'Be  not  surprised,  then,  when  I  say  that,  as 
chance  is  unknown  in  nature,  as,  indeed,  you 
have  admitted,  I  seek  for  what  the  world  calls 
causes  of  any  event,  in  every  circumstance,  in  all 
time,  that  can  be  in  any  way  connected  with 
it.  In  the  whole  universe  there  is  not  the  least 
saltus — no  chasm ;  and  if  the  death  of  the  Baptist 
be  ascribed  by  me  to  the  invention  of  dancing, 
this  'poetry  of  motion'  is  itself  connected  with 
myriads  of  other  things,  up  to  the  first  creation 
of  all  things;  and  the  beheading  of  the  Baptist, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  in  like  manner  allied  to 
innumerable  other  things,  down  to  the  present 
hour,  and  so  will  be  to  the  end  of  time !' 

As  it  has  been  my  good  and  ill  fortune,  to  have 
argued  with  sensible  and  learned  men,  as  well  as 
with  blockheads,  a  thousand  times,  and  never  yet 
met  with  a  solitary  instance  of  a  victory  being 
conceded  by  either  party,  to  either  class  of  arguers. 


192  EVENTS,    HOW    RELATED    TO 

I  found  myself  but  little  stimulated  to  further  exer- 
tion. The  pride  of  opinion,  the  fascinations  of 
sophistry,  the  impatience  of  contradiction,  the  mor- 
tification at  being  out-argued,  and  the  tenacity  with 
which  a  theory  is  ever  maintained,  are,  each  and 
all,  quite  too  powerful  to  give  the  least  hope  of  an 
admitted  '/o  triumphans^  to  either  party — so  that 
I  dechned  all  further  discussion  with  my  'learned 
Theban,'  further  than,  somewhat  jocosely  to  ask 
him  a  ievj  questions.  'Had  you  been  a  Roman,' 
said  I,  'would  you  have  charged  upon  Scipio  the 
crime  of  all  those  disturbances,  and  seditions  raised 
by  the  Gracchi?  For,  you  know,  had  not  this 
Scipio  married  his  daughter  to  Tiberius  Gracchus, 
whose  offspring  were  these  two  famous  brothers, 
there  would  have  been  no  Gracchi,  and  conse- 
quently, no  seditions — ergo,  on  your  principle, 
Scipio  is  criminal;  for,  if  circumstances  are  causes, 
and  causes  produce  effects,  and  effects  produce 
mischief,  how  do  you  get  rid  of  impuiabilityl* 
'Again,  would  you  reward  those  unnatural 
brothers  of  Eudoxia  for  having  turned  her  off 
upon  the  world,  whereupon  the  Emperor  Theo- 
dosius  married  her — since,  unless  she  had  been 
driven  from  her  home,  she  had  never  seen  Con- 
stantinople, and  never  have  been  raised  to  such 
honours?  And  further,  upon  your  argument, 
how  nmch  thanks  must  have  been  really  due  by 
Joseph  to  his  bretiiren,  for  that  cruelty,  which, 
as  you  know,  made  him  governor  over  all  Egypt! 
Joseph,  indeed,  forgave  his  brethren,  and  lavished 

*  Vide  Cidro  de  Jiivent. 


REMOTE    CIRCUMSTANCES.  193 

kindnesses  upon  tliem,  but  surely,  these  were 
gratuitous ;  and  yet  your  system  requires  one  of 
two  things  as  inevitable,  either  that  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  merit  and  demerit,  and  consequently, 
no  just  reward  or  punishment ;  or,  secondly,  that 
all  who  have  in  any  way  remotely  caused  evil 
or  good,  and  even  those  who  have  caused  evil  out 
of  good,  or  good  out  of  evil,  merit  in  the  one 
case  punishment,  in  the  other  two  cases,  reward  ! 
Eudoxia,  then,  and  Joseph,  were  bound  to  reward 
their  brothers,  as,  in  both  cases,  their  cruelty  was 
the  cause,  under  your  doctrine,  of  their  signal 
success  in  life,  making  the  one  an  empress,  the 
other  a  powerful  governor ! 

'And  still  further,  do  you  really  suppose,  Para- 
philus,  that  Henry  IV.  of  France  was  murdered 
by  Ravillac,  merely  because  two  thousand  years 
before  that  event  some  geese  had  cackled  in  the 
capitol  ?* — and  yet  these  geese  cackled  at  the  very 
time  the  capitol  was  assaulted  by  the  Gauls,  and 
thus  saved  Rome  !  The  subsequent  ascendency 
of  the  empire  enabled  it  to  foster  the  christian 
religion — France  became  christianized — and  Ravil- 
lac hence  became  inspired  with  those  mistaken 
motives  concerning  that  religion,  which  induced 
him  to  become  a  regicide  !  Nay,  Pamphilus,  your 
gracious  self  would  never  have  been  born,  and 
certainly  not  as  an  American,  nor  would  there 
have  been  any  American  Revolution,  had  not  a 
Dutch  ship  from  Guinea,  with  some  natives  of 
that  country,  visited  our  shores  !     Your  own  inge- 

•  Vide  Bentliam's  Principles  of  Morals. 

17* 


194  EVENTS,    HOW    RELATED    TO 

nuity  in  this  kind  of  work,  will  enable  you  at  once 
to  supply  all  the  intermediate  circumstances,  and 
thus  complete  your  argument!  And  I  also,  have 
to  thank  your  theory,  for  letting  me  know  why  I 
am  here  myself — for,  I  now  clearly  perceive  how 
my  own  birth  in  this  happy  land,  is  connected 
with  a  cause  that  dates  back  at  least  two  centuries 
ago,  in  that  M.  d'Aubigne  was  then  a  distinguish- 
ed Huguenot  leader  in  France  !  !' 

'How  is  that,'  exclaimed  Pamphilus,  with  invo- 
luntary surprise.  'Oh,  nothing  more  simple;  for, 
had  not  one  Francoise  d'Aubigne,  his  grand- 
daughter, (afterwads  the  Marchioness  de  Main- 
tenon)  been  born  in  a  prison,  and  in  1651,  when 
quite  young,  been  married  to  the  famous  Scarron, 
then  aged,  infirm,  and  deformed,  and  afterwards 
to  Louis  XIV. — the  revocation  of  the  edict  of 
Nantes  by  that  monarch,  in  1685,  would  never 
have  taken  place — and  it  was  that  very  revocation 
which  brought  7ny  grandfather  to  these  shores ; 
and  thus,  as  you  perceive,  every  link  in  the  chain 
is  complete  ;  I  have  to  thank  the  D'Aubigne's  for 
now  conversing  with  you!  My  good  Pamphilus, 
your  argument  proves  quite  too  much,  and  I 
always  vehemently  suspect  any  mode  of  reasoning 
that  seems  so  compliantly  to  prove  almost  any 
thing.  And  yet,  I  frankly  admit,  the  subject  we 
are  on  is  highly  curious,  and  not  without  its  diffi- 
culties— but  1  trust  a  sober  and  well  regulated 
mind  will  be  able  to  detect  the  fallacies  of  your 
theory,  especially  as  it  leads  to  the  gloomiest  of  all 
philosophy — to  the  most  rigid  fatalism  the  world 


REMOTE    CIRCUMSTANCES.  195 

has  ever  known ;  for  it  binds  equally  all  intelli- 
gences in  heaven  and  upon  earth;  nay,  even  Deity 
himself,  in  a  mechanical  system  of  existence,  as 
repugnant  to  common  sense,  as  it  is  certainly 
shocking  to  every  sound  feeling  of  the  heart.' — 
And  so  our  colloquy  terminated. 

But,  as  I  have  since  thought  somewhat  of  the 
matter,  I  will  note  a  few  additional  remarks,  as  the 
subject,  to  some  thin  minds,  has  proved  not  a  little 
mischievous! 

There  can  be  no  doubt  an  argument  on  Pam- 
philus'  principles,  diminishes  in  value,  and  may 
become  utterly  worthless,  when  carried  to  its  ex- 
tremest  point,  as  by  invoking  causes  and  princi- 
ples so  far-fetched  as  to  prevent  the  mind  from 
contemplating  a  thousand  other  causes  that  may 
equally,  and  even  more,  have  operated.  So  also, 
on  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  conceded  that  a  very 
trifling  matter  may  be  the  proximate  cause  of  very 
extraordinary  events : — but,  in  such  cases,  it  is 
only  the  torch  applied  to  the  magazine,  and  is  that 
last  or  finisliing  cause  which,  though  in  itself 
almost  invisible,  lias  set  all  the  other  antecedent 
causes  into  efficient  actions.  In  this  view  of  the 
matter  a  philosopher  will  not  neglect  causes  very 
remote,  nor  pass  by  the  last  or  proximate  cause, 
however  inconsiderable  it  may  in  itself  be.  And 
yet  he  should  be  certain  that  all  are  causes  connect- 
ed with  the  event.  But  the  whole  of  them  com- 
bined, thougii  they  ascend  very  high,  and  become 
extremely  numerous  and  some  of  them  equally 
trithng,  can  never  justify  the  adoption  of  the  fan- 


196  EVENTS,    HOW    RELATED    TO 

ciful  and  wild  theory  of  Leibintz,  who,  availing 
himself  of  the  popular  tendency  to  be  carried  away 
by  terse  phrases  and  uncurrent  terms,  threw  around 
his  theories  the  mystery  and  vagueness  which  so 
often  result  from  names — and  hence  was  it  that 
his  'pre-established  harmony,'  and  his  'law  of  con- 
tinuity,' (phrases  so  easily  pronounced)  gave  to  his 
pernicious  doctrines  the  charm  of  novelty,  and  a 
higher  distinction  than  they  would  have  attained, 
had  they  been  set  forth  to  the  popular  ear  in  all 
their  naked  absurdity.  Among  other  things,  I 
have  heard  it  said  that  Louis  XVI.  would  not 
have  met  his  unhappy  fate,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  suppression  of  the  religious  orders  in  17S2, 
by  Joseph  II.  of  Austria ! 

Now,  in  this  and  numerous  like  cases,  a  careful 
examination  of  all  the  intermediate  links,  may  pos- 
sibly reveal  a  connection,  where  at  the  first  view, 
the  matter  may  appear  so  remotely  extravagant 
as  to  sound  eminently  ridiculous !  This  mode  of 
speaking  is,  also,  sometimes  rather  figurative,  than 
designed  to  be  offered  as  philosophically  and  his- 
torically accurate.  Thus,  it  is  certainly  too  peremp- 
tory for  an  historian  (though  not  out  of  place  for 
the  orator)  to  say,  that  the  blood  of  Lucretia  put 
an  end  to  kingly  power  at  Rome ;  that  its  form  of 
government  was  changed  by  a  debtor's  ap]iearing 
before  the  people  covered  with  wounds ;  that 
decemviral  power  was  terminated  at  the  sight  of 
Virginia ;  that  the  presentation  of  the  mangled 
body,  and  the  bloody  robes  of  Cassar,  enslaved 
Rome — and   yet   such  round   expressions   seldom 


REMOTE    CIRCUMSTANCES.  197 

produce  any  erroneous  views  on  sensible  minds, 
as  tlie  more  general  and  antecedent  causes  will 
readily  occur  to  them  ;  and  moreover,  as  there  is 
here  no  design  really  to  attribute  such  momentous 
effects  to  causes  so  inadequate  to  their  production. 

Whilst,  therefore,  I  Avould  differ  from  Pamphilus 
ioto  coeloy  in  invoking  the  Leibnitzian  absurdity, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  chain  of  circum- 
stances causative  of  an  event,  is  sometimes  longer 
than  may  at  first  be  apparent ;  and  also,  that  a 
proximate  cause  surprisingly  small,  may  often  be 
so  connected  with  an  important  event,  as  to  charac- 
terize it  as  the  generative  cause,  and  thus  to  pro- 
duce on  the  n)ind  a  startling  impression,  similar 
in  a  degree,  to  that  experienced  from  wit,  which 
agreeably  surprises  by  the  sudden  detection  of 
points  of  resemblance,  between  things  apparently 
very  dissimilar. 

Even  so  shrewd  a  commentator  on  Machiavel, 
as  Frederick  II.  of  Prussia,  hesitated  not  to  ascribe 
the  change  of  Queen  Anne's  ministry,  and  the 
restoration  of  peace  with  Louis  XIV.  to  some  petty 
quarrel  between  her  Majesty  and  the  Duchess  of 
Marlborough,  about  a  pair  of  gloves  !  Another 
sage  writer  thinks  Marlborough's  ejection,  and  the 
peace  of  Utrecht,  were  occasioned  by  a  basin  of 
water  being  cast  upon  a  lady's  gown — another 
thinks  that  the  triumpliant  battle  of  llossbach 
must  be  ascribed  to  a  jest  upon  Madame  de  Pom- 
padour— and  so  again  the  downfall,  during  so 
many  years,  of  the  Bourbons,  has  been  ascribed  to 
a  falling  out  between   Maria  Antoinette   and  the 


198  EVENTS,    HOW    RELATED    TO 

Duke  of  Orleans — the  wars  of  Louis  XIV.  to  some 
offence  taken  by  his  minister  at  the  king's  com- 
plaint concerning  a  window  !  and  so  of  an  hundred 
others  that  might  be  named, — all  of  which  trifles, 
without  doubt,  were  connected  with  the  great 
events  mentioned,  and  may  have  even  operated  as 
proximate  causes  ;  and  yet  each  must  have  been 
but  the  almost  invisible  occasional  cause  that  set  a 
thousand  others,  of  infinitely  greater  weight,  into 
actual  operation  ;  and,  therefore,  is  to  be  regarded 
merely  as  a  causative  circumstance,  by  no  means 
entitled  to  play  so  large  a  part,  as  is  claimed  for 
each,  in  the  great  drama  of  human  life. 

In  connection  with  the  topic  in  hand,  I  do  not 
hesitate  to  note  here  a  few  remarks  of  the  late 
Jeremy  Bentham,  not  only  because  the  volume 
containing  them  is  so  little  known  in  this  coun- 
try— and,  comparatively,  but  little  read  in  his  own, 
but  likewise  as  he  deals  with  a  part  of  the  subject 
in  hand,  with  his  characteristic  shrewdness,  and 
method. 

'A  cii'cumstance  may  be  related  to  an  event,  in 
point  of  casuality,  in  one  of  four  ways — 1st,  in  the 
way  of  production;  2d,  in  the  way  of  derivation; 
3d,  in  the  way  of  collateral  connection;  and  4th, 
in  the  way  of  conjunct  influence.  The  circum- 
stance may  be  said  to  be  related  to  the  event  in 
the  way  of  production,  when  it  is  of  the  number  of 
those  circumstances  which  contribute  to  its  causa- 
tion, or  existence:  in  the  way  of  derivation,  Avhen 
it  is  of  the  number  of  the  events,  to  the  production 
of  which  that  in  question  has  been  contributory  : 


REMOTE    CIRCUMSTANCES.  199 

in  the  way  of  collateral  con7iectio?i,  when  the  cir- 
cumstance in  question,  and  the  event  in  question, 
(without  either  of  them  being  instrumental  in  the 
production  of  the  other)  are  related  each  of  them, 
to  some  common  object  which  has  been  concerned 
in  the  production  of  them  both :  and  in  the  way  of 
cotijujict  iii/luencc,  when,  whether  related  in  any 
other  way  or  not,  they  have  both  of  them  con- 
curred in  the  production  of  some  common  conse- 
quence. All  of  which  may  be  illustrated  by  an 
example — In  the  year  1628,  Villars,  Duke  of 
Buckingham,  the  favourite  minister  of  Charles  I. 
of  England,  received  a  wound  and  died.  The 
man  who  gave  it  him  was  one  Felto?i,  who  exas- 
perated at  the  maladministration  of  which  that 
minister  was  accused,  went  down  from  London  to 
Portsmouth,  where  Buckingham  happened  then  to 
be — made  his  way  into  his  anti-chamber,  and  find- 
ing him  busily  engaged  in  conversation  with  a 
number  of  people  around  him,  got  close  to  him, 
drew  a  knife,  and  stabbed  him.  In  the  effort,  the 
assassin's  hat  fell  oif,  which  was  found  soon  after, 
and,  upon  searching  him,  the  bloody  knife.  In  the 
crown  of  the  hat  were  found  scraps  of  paper,  with 
sentences  expressive  of  the  purpose  he  was  come 
upon. — Here  then,  suppose  the  event  in  question 
is  the  wound  received  by  Buckingham:  Felton's 
drawing  out  his  knife,  his  making  his  way  into  the 
chamber,  his  going  down  to  Portsmouth,  his  con- 
ceiving an  indignation  at  the  idea  of  Buckingham's 
administration,  that  administration  itself,  Charles' 
appointing  such  a  minister,  and  so  on,  higher  and 


200  EVENTS,    HOW    RELATED    TO 

higher  rcithout  end,  are  so  many  circumstances 
related  to  the  event  in  the  way  oi  causation  or  pro- 
duciioti:  the  bloodiness  of  the  knife  is  a  circum- 
stance related  to  the  event  in  the  way  of  deriva- 
tion: the  finding  the  hat  upon  the  ground,  the 
finding  the  sentences  in  the  hat,  and  the  writing 
them,  are  so  many  circumstances  related  to  it  in 
the  way  of  collateral  connection:  and  the  situation 
and  conversations  of  the  people  about  Bucking- 
ham, were  circumstances  related  to  the  circum- 
stances of  Felton's  making  his  way  into  the  room, 
going  down  to  Portsmouth,  and  so  higher  and 
higher,  in  the  way  of  conjunct  influence,  inasmuch 
as  they  contributed  in  common  to  the  event  of 
Buckingham's  death,  by  preventing  him  from  put- 
ting himself  npon  his  guard  upon  the  first  appear- 
ance of  the  intruder. 

'These  several  relations  do  not  all  of  them 
attach  upon  an  event  with  equal  certainty.  In 
the  first  place,  it  is  plain,  indeed,  that  every 
event  must  have  some  circumstances  related  to 
it  in  the  way  of  production.  It  must  of  course 
have  a  still  greater  multitude  of  circumstances 
related  to  it  in  the  way  of  collateral  connection; 
but  it  does  not  appear  necessary  that  every  event 
should  have  circumstances  related  to  it  in  the  way 
oi  derivation ;  nor,  therefore,  that  it  should  have 
any  related  to  it  in  the  way  of  conjunct  iiijluence. 
This  division  may  be  further  illustrated  and  con- 
firmed by  the  more  simple  and  particular  case  of 
offspring — for,  to  production  corresponds  pater- 
nity— to  derivation,  filiation — to  collateral  connec- 


REMOTE    CIRCUMSTANCES.  -201 

tion,  collateral  consanguinity — to   conjunct  influ- 
ence, marriage  and  children^ 

The  foregoing  classification,  though  ingenious, 
and   characterized  by  Mr.    Bentham's   customary 
regard  to  strict  method,  will  appear  to  many,  rather 
fanciful  than  useful ;   but,  when  more  closely  in- 
spected, and  applied  to  the  infinite  concerns  of  life, 
will  be  found  by  no  means  destitute  of  truth  and 
utility.     How  much  such  an  apparently  artificial 
division  of  any  subject  tends  to  enable  the  mind  to 
extract  from  it  a  latent  and  practical  philosophy,  is 
well  known  to  those  whdse  vocation  calls  them  to 
accurate  and  deep  inquiries.     Where  truth  is  to  be 
extracted  by  a  thorough  analysis  of  facts,  as  is 
so  often  the  duty  of  the  lawyer,  the  judge,  and 
the  metaphysician,  such  methodical  arrangements 
will  be  found  of  eminent  advantage.    Much  of  the 
force  as  well  as  beauty  of  forensic  and  judicial 
exercitations,  is  thereby  promoted  ;  and  the  cause 
of  justice  is  revealed   more   clearly  by  the  lights 
shed  upon  the  entire  subject  from  these  numerous 
divisions,    they  becoming,  as   it    were,   so   many 
radiant  points  of  departure  for  new  and  illustrative 
researches.     And  so  it  is  with  every  thing  in  life ; 
truth  is  always  made  more  clear,  folly  never,  by 
such  classifications ;   and  the  sophistry,  however 
artificial  and  ingenious,  of  the  class  to  which  Pam- 
philus  belongs,  can  never  long  mislead  ;  for  nothing 
is  more  true  than  that  wisdom's  counsels  never 
appear  so  bright,  as  when  folly  attempts  to  illumi- 
nate her  paths. 
18 


20-2  EVENTS,    HOW   RELATED    TO 

I  have  been  also  forcibly  struck  with  some 
remarks  of  Mr.  Villers,  in  his  very  sensible  and 
learned  Prize  Essay,  on  the  influences  of  Luther's 
Reformation.  The  magnitude  of  his  subject  seem- 
ed to  appall  him ;  and,  on  the  outset,  he  inquires, 
*Is  not  that  great  event,  which  I  consider  as  a 
cause  itself,  the  simple  result  of  many  other 
events  that  have  preceded  it? — and  must  I  not 
on  this  accouHt,  refer  to  them,  and  not  to  it,  which 
has  only  been  an  intermediate  agent?'  'To  the 
eye  of  the  mind,'  continues  he,  'every  event  traced 
upwards,  becomes  a  simple  effect;  every  effect, 
traced  downwards,  becomes  in  its  turn  a  cause. 
To  mount  up  to  a  first  cause  subsisting  by  itself, 
is  a  demand  on  our  intellectual  nature  which 
searches  for  an  absolute  principle,  on  which  its 
speculations  must  terminate.'  And  he  concludes 
with  the  following  beautiful  illustration.  'A  man 
entirely  unacquainted  with  the  nature  of  a  river, 
arriving  on  the  banks  of  one,  and  observing  it 
here  to  flow  in  an  extensive  plain,  there  confined 
in  a  narrow  channel,  in  another  place  foaming 
by  the  agitation  of  a  cataract, — such  a  man  would 
regard  the  first  turning  of  the  stream,  where  it 
lies  concealed  from  his  eye,  as  the  origin  of  the 
river — but  should  he  ascend,  the  cataract  would 
produce  a  similar  illusion  ;  and  having  reached  the 
source  at  last,  he  would  then  consider  the  moun- 
tain from  which  it  issues,  as  the  primary  cause  of 
the  river:  he  would  soon  however  reflect,  that  the 
bowels  of  the  mountain  must  shortly  be  exhausted 
by  so  constant  a  stream — he  would  then  observe 


REMOTE    CIRCUMSTANCES.  203 

the  accumulation  of  clouds,  and  the  rains,  with- 
out which  the  drained  mountain  would  yield  no 
water — thus  would  the  clouds  become  the  primary- 
cause  !  but  those,  again,  are  brought  by  the  winds 
which  sweep  the  great  seas— and,  still  further,  by 
the  sun  it  is  that  they  are  raised,  from  the  sea ! 
Whence,  then,  comes  tiiis  power  in  the  sun?' 

But,  enough  has  been  said  in  this  note,  to 
unfold  my  meaning,  which  briefly  is, — that  whilst 
the  ultimate  cause,  of  almost  any  thing,  is  as 
much  beyond  the  reach  of  the  intellectual  eye, 
as  is  the  beginning  of  a  circle,  (the  total  disre- 
gard of  which  has  generated  many  of  the  crudi- 
ties of  vain  and  ponderous  learning)— yet,  that 
contentment,  in  most  cases,  with  the  mere  proxi- 
mate cause,  would  fall  far  short  of  the  legitimate 
limits  of  philosophical  inquiry,  and  would  gene- 
rally end  in  meagre  sciolism: — the  juste  milieu^ 
therefore,  in  this,  as  in  all  other  things,  should 
be  carefully  observed  by  writers,  be  they  meta- 
physicians, physicians,  historians,  poets,  or  what 
not. 


CHAPTER  V. 

XVII.       CATHEDEALIZING. XVIII.      AN      OLLA-PODRIDA.  —  XIX. 

DREAMING. — XX.      THOUGHTS     ON    A    PLAY     OR    TWO. XXI. 

THE     ADVANTAGES     OF     IMPUDENCE. 

NOTE    XVII. CATHEDRALIZING. 

One  of  the  occupations  of  a  traveller  in  Eng- 
land, but  especially  on  the  Continent,  may,  not 
unappropriately  be  called  cathedralizing ,  for  the 
which  I  conceived  no  little  passion,  having  been 
led  to  explore  (at  least  under  the  genus  church) 
perhaps,  an  hundred  on  the  favoured  island,  and, 
possibly,  ten  times  as  many  on  the,  continent ! 
These  temples  raised  to  the  God  of  christians, 
be  they  basilika,  cathedral,  church,  or  chapel,  are 
often  full  of  the  visible  chronicles  of  many  cen- 
turies: they  shadow  forth  the  progress,  mutations, 
decline,  and  revival  of  architecture — the  growth 
and  variations  of  the  fine  arts — the  piety,  follies, 
and  superstitions  of  hierarchs,  of  monarchs,  and 
of  people — the  rise,  progress,  and  fall  of  religions, 
and  of  sects — the  vandal  outrages,  and  destruc- 
tions of  opposing  bigots — the  devastations  of  war, 
the  reparations  of  peace — the  memorials  of  family 
affection,  pride,  or  arrogance  in  the  perpetuation 
of  the   names   of  the   great,   t!ie   good,    and   the 


CATHEDRALIZING.  205 

wicked — the  trophies  of  patriotism,  or  of  a  coun- 
try's gratitude,  preserved  in  connection  with  the 
warrior's  mausoleum,  or  his  more  humble  slab — 
the  exquisite,  or  faulty  taste  of  sculptors,  painters, 
poets — and,  in  fine,  these  temples,  perhaps  better 
than  any  other  species  of  building,  are  the  faithful 
guardians,  and  permanent  repositories  of  many  of 
the  notabilia  in  a  nation's  history. 

I  am,  then,  not  ashamed  of  the  many  hours 
of  many  days,  devoted  to  this  pursuit,  nor  of  the 
particularity  manifested,  even  in  this  brief  note, 
respecting  one  of  these  magnificent  christian 
temples. 

The  descriptions  and  reflections  of  a  tourist, 
charming  as  they  sometimes  are,  have  now  be- 
come so  trite  and  cur-cheap,  that  they  pall  upon 
the  appetite ;  and  the  very  name  of  tour,  or  of 
tourist,  is  fast  approaching  the  fate  of  things  that 
are  common,  or  mawkishly  odious  !     Now, 

'As  every  fool  describes  in  these  bright  days, 
His  wonderous  journey  to  some  foreign  court,' 

I  have  long  since  resolved  never  to  indite  a 
book,  nay,  not  even  a  chapter,  of  travels!  And 
yet,  no  reason  do  I  see  why  I  should  not  indulge 
in  a  little  harmless  note  in  my  diary,  for  my  own 
amusement,  and  edification  withal ;  for  it  is  most 
pleasant  to  recall  such  things  to  one's  memory — 
so  that  one  may  there  resort  at  will,  no  one  to 
chubb  him  for  the  trite,  erroneous,  or  silly  things  he 
may  have  recorded,  nor  for  the  fashion  in  which 
they  may  be  clothed — but  never,  oh  never,  should 
he  permit  one  of  them  to  meet  the  public  eye ! 
18* 


206  CATHEDRALIZING. 

for  then,  no  plea  of  a  private  nature  would  avail 
as  an  excuse,  nor  could  he  haughtily  say,  in 
regard  to  the  fashion  thereof,  ^Cest  ma  fa^on  de 
parler,  and  a  further  reason  I  scorn  to  give,''  as 
■well  might  be  said  when  such  notes  are  suffered 
to  meet  only  his  own  eye,  or  that  of  some  special 
friend.* 

The  Philosophy  of  Travel  would  be,  indeed, 
a  beautiful  subject;  but  it  has  never  yet  been 
attempted,  and,  perhaps,  never  will  be,  as  much 
from  the  want  of  an  author,  as,  possibly,  of  suffi- 
ciently numerous  readers  were  it  written !  The 
great  work  of  the  Abbe  Barthelemy  is  scarce  an 
exception  to  my  remark — and  yet  that  was  the 
labour  of  thirty  years,  the  production  of  an  accom- 
plished general  scholar,  orientalist,  antiquarian, 
and  industrious  traveller ;  but  it  treats  of  matters 
and  things  he  had  never  seen,  it  being  the  imagi- 
nary travels  of  the  younger  Anacharsis  in  Greece  : 
whereas  I  allude  to  the  philosophy  of  modern 
travel  into  various  countries — not  the  result  of 
extensive  reading  merely,  but  also  of  actual  obser- 
vation, and  of  deep  research  among  the  interesting 
and  recherche  things,  as  far  as  they  are  extant, 

*The  reader  now  perceives  that  the  closing  part  of  the  author's 
resolution,  liice  some  lovers'  vows,  vanished  into  thin  air,  when  he 
decided  to  give  the  public  a  peep  into  his  note-book.  As  the 
matters  were  when  first  written,  so  do  they  now  appear,  with 
such  occasional  additions  and  variations  only,  as  might  impart  to 
them  something  of  a  more  popular  form.  But  he  fears  he  must 
still  crave  pardon  even  for  this  small  note  of  travels,  and  for  any 
others  that  appear  in  this  little  volume,  so  far  forth  as  they 
may  be  clearly  referred  to  the  bead  of  travels,  which  he  very 
generally  endeavoured  to  avoid. 


CATHEDRALIZING.  207 

of  all  ages,  and  of  all  countries;  and,  by  an 
admirable  classification,  bringing  them  so  together, 
that  the  wonders,  excellencies,  and  defects  of  them 
all  may  be  compared  and  contrasted  !  In  such 
a  work,  governments,  laws,  institutions,  habits, 
customs,  arts,  sciences,  statistics,  buildings,  (an- 
cient and  modern)  ruins,  antiquities,  things  curious 
in  nature  and  in  art — and,  in  fine,  all  that  could 
be  reaped  from  extensive  wanderings,  and  from 
minute  observation,  would  be  brought  together, 
under  a  concentrated  view ;  and  thus  exhibit,  as 
it  were,  an  almost  universal  comparative  travel, 
with  its  whole  intellectuality — so  that,  like  cojn- 
parative  anatomy,  with  its  physiology,  it  would 
exhibit  the  subject  in  all  of  its  bearings,  and  in 
all  of  its  varied,  beautiful,  and  useful  results! 
Such  a  book  could  be  accomplished  only  by  a 
Montesquieu  among  travellers — by  such  a  soli- 
tary emanation,  as  might  suddenly  dart  upon  the 
world  only  once,  perhaps,  in  a  decade  of  centuries  ! 
This  by  way  of  episode,  and  not  of  preamble  to 
what  is  to  follow. 

But,  having  nearly  lost  the  theme  of  my  dis- 
course, I  must  remind  my  reader  that  I  was  seek- 
ing for  some  apology  for  my  present  Note,  seeing 
that  a  traveller's  descriptions  are  now  so  apt  to  be 
eyed  with  little  estimation,  and  often  with  some 
loathing;  unless,  perhaps,  of  scenes  at  either 
pole, — in  central  Africa — in  the  long  forgotten 
regions  of  'Araby  the  blest' — of  Edom — or  among 
'Tadmor's  marble  wastes  !'  None  of  these  have  I, 
unhappily,  to  offer,  and   have  therefore  indulged 


208  CATHEDRALIZING. 

(although  my  topic  be  nothing  more  than  an 
EngUsh  Cathedral)  in  a  little  ideology  about  the 
philosophy  of  travel,  to  show  that  I  had  in  my 
mind's  eye,  at  least,  the  beau  ideal  of  an  interest- 
ing work  on  travels,  possibly  never  to  be  executed 
by  any  one,  but  now  feebly  shadowed  by  me,  that  I 
might,  if  possible,  conciliate  some  few  towards  the 
dull  details  of  one  who  has  never  been  in  such 
very  distant  lands  !  Still,  my  cathedral  may  afford 
some  interest  and  instruction  to  those  not  learned, 
and  not  over-fastidious  in  such  matters.  With  this 
hope,  and  without  further  ado,  I  shall  proceed. 

In  matters  of  taste,  and  of  the  science  that  may 
belong  to  them,  there  seems  to  me  a  certain  jooe^zca/ 
justice^  so  to  speak,  which  should  never  be  viola- 
ted. Hence,  when  works  of  art,  or  of  nature,  have 
been  traditionally  over-praised,  or  under-praised,  it 
affords  us  pleasure  to  use  our  mite  of  endeavour  to 
bring  them  back  to  their  merited  position,  and  this 
remark,  as  it  seems  to  me,  is  strictly  applicable  to 
the  York  Minster,  the  only  subject  of  my  Note, 
and  of  my  cathedralizing  lour  in  England,  and 
on  the  continent,  with  which  I  shall  trouble  the 
reader. 

The  Minster  is,  indeed,  a  noble  pile,  full  of  the 
sources  of  interesting  reminiscence,  and  adorned 
with  many  goodly  evidences  of  the  artist's  skill — 
but,  by  age,  misfortunes,  and  original  defects,  it  is 
not,  and  ncA^er  was  meritorious  of  all  the  praises  so 
lavishly  bestowed.  For  centuries  it  hath  been  the 
fashion  to  laud  this  cathedral  in  unmeasured  terms; 
and  often  to  the  disparagement  of  its  fellows,  both 


CATHEDRALIZING.  209 

in  England,  and  on  the  continent:  and  the  cathe- 
dralizer,  after  visiting  those  of  Wells,  Winchester, 
Ely,  Salisbury,  Peterborough,  Westminster,  Can- 
terbury,  Durham,  Lincoln,  Bristol,  &c.  is  apt  to 
continue  in  the  same  eulogistic  strain  of  the  Min- 
ster, because  his  predecessors  have  so  said  !  He 
speaks  of  its  great  antiquity,  of  its  vast  size — of 
its  mammoth  'East  window'  as  the  tenth  marvel  of 
the  world — of  its  matchless  stained  glass — of  the 
'maiden  sisters,'  as  far  excelling  all  other  windows 
in  grace  and  beauty — of  the  'mosaic  pavement' — 
the  screens,  monuments,  carvings,  gildings,  &c.  as 
all  so  transcendant,  that  the  Minster,  like  Aaron's 
rod,  seems  to  swallow  up  all  others  ! 

Now,  where  there  is  actually  much  skill  com- 
bined with  beauty,  it  would  seem  an  invidious 
task  to  note  defects— but,  is  there  not  justice  be- 
tween things  inanimate,  and  even  vile,  and  shall 
there  not  be  among  cathedrals,  which  are  among 
the  worthiest  of  human  works  ?  I  think  so,  and 
therefore  do  I  say,  though  the  world  should  laugh, 
that  the  Minster  is,  after  all,  a  vast  and  most  irre- 
gular, graceless  pile,  with  numerous  architectural 
defects  and  blemishes ;  that  as  a  whole,  and  in  the 
detail,  it  is  obnoxious  to  much  censure  (as  well  as 
to  much  praise ;)  that,  compared  with  some  other 
sacred  temples,  of  England  and  elsewhere,  it  falls 
far  short,  in  many  particulars  characteristic  of  a 
truly  great  building — a  chef  cTccuvre  of  architec- 
tural genius.  Let  us  then  see  what  this  cathedral 
is,  and  what  it  is  not — but  in  as  brief  a  discourse 
as  may  well  be. 


210  CATHEDRALIZING. 

The  Minster,  as  it  stands  7iow,  is  the  work  of 
different  periods,  beginning  with  the  South  Tran- 
sept, in  1227 ;  then  came  the  North  Transept,  in 
1260,  the  Nave,  in  1291,  the  two  Western  Towers, 
in  1330,  and  the  Choir,  and  Central  Tower,  in 
1370.  But  the  cathedral,  on  the  same  site,  had  its 
origin  at  a  much  remoter  date,  parts  of  which 
original  building  are  to  be  found  in  the  existing 
foundations,  in  the  crypt;  the  old  materials  having 
been  worked  into  the  more  modern  structure ;  and, 
in  the  crypt  may  be  found  columns,  with  neatly 
carved  capitals  and  bases  ;  which,  however,  are 
extremely  short,  scarce  more  than  six  feet  high, 
and  some  even  much  less.  From  this  it  would 
seem  highly  probable  that  these  columns  are  not 
now  in  their  original  places,  as  component  parts  of 
a  much  earlier  sacred  building,  as  seems  to  be 
erroneously  supposed  by  some. 

The  first  church  on  the  present  site,  was  built  in 
627,  by  Edwin,  king  of  the  Northumbrians,  who 
was  one  of  the  earliest  of  the  petty  monarchs  of 
this  island,  that  embraced  Christianity.  This  being 
destroyed  by  fire,  was  rebuilt  in  1069,  and  again 
met  the  same  fate,  and  was  then  rebuilt  by  arch- 
bishop Thomas,  and  again  consumed  in  1137,  and 
once  more  rebuilt  by  A.  B.  Roger,  in  1171.  Thus 
it  remained  until  reconstructed  as  it  now  stands, 
commencing  with  the  year  1227,  and  ending  in 
1370,  since  which  latter  date  no  material  alteration 
has  taken  place,  except  in  that  portion  of  it  de- 
stroyed in  1827,  by  that  mad  incendiary,  Jonathan 
Martin,  who,  conceiving  he  would   be  rendering 


CATHEDRALIZING.  211 

God  a  service,  applied  his  sacrilegious  torch,  which 
consumed  most  of  the  choir,  part  of  the  nave,  and 
considerably  injured  many,  and  destroyed  some  of 
the  monuments.  The  damage,  however,  was  not 
very  great,  and  has  been  thoroughly  repaired  after 
the  original  models,  and  with  an  artistical  skill,  not 
only  extremely  creditable  to  the  present  age,  but 
which  shows  that,  if  occasion  demand,  the  proud 
and  gorgeous  cathedral  of  catholic  times,  can  in 
our  day  be  made  to  stand  forth  in  all  its  varied, 
beautiful,  massive,  and  expensive  details  ! 

After  a  careful  examination  of  this  much-famed 
temple,  and  an  equally  observant  inspection  of 
many  of  the  most  noted  cathedrals  of  France, 
Italy,  and  of  some  other  countries,  I  have  not  been 
able,  as  already  remarked,  to  account  for  the  extra- 
ordinary praises  so  constantly  bestowed  on  this, 
and  why  it  should  have  taken  rank  so  highly 
above  its  associates,  even  in  England  :  for,  whether 
it  be  regarded  in  its  integrity,  or  in  its  details,  it 
could  never,  in  its  most  palmy  days,  have  been 
much  superior  to  some  others  of  the  island,  and 
falls  short,  in  many  respects,  of  some  of  the  conti- 
nental cathedrals. 

If  we  attend  to  its  dimensions,  exterior  form, 
ornaments  and  carvings;  its  interior  outlines,  tra- 
ceries, filligranes,  stained  glass,  the  construction 
and  material  of  its  roof,  its  pavements,  and  its 
monuments,  we  shall  find  some  deficiency  in  them 
all ;  and  that  in  most  of  these  particulars,  other 
English  cathedrals,  and  some  of  their  chapels  are 


212  CATHEDRALIZING. 

quite  equal,  and  occasionally,  in  some  of  them, 
superior. 

And  1st,  of  its  dimensions.  The  Minster  is  5245 
feet  in  length,  222  in  its  transept,  and  109  in  its 
nave.  Winchester  cathedral  is  556  feet  in  length, 
and  186  in  its  transept  and  nave.  The  Minster's 
towers  are  234  feet  in  height,  those  of  Lincoln  are 
270— of  St.  PauVs  356,  and  of  Salisbury  38T  feet. 
The  Minster's  choir  is  131  feet  in  length,  and  99  in 
height — that  of  St.  Paul's  is  165  in  length,  and  88 
in  height,  and  those  of  Rochester^  Canterbury^ 
Peterborough^  Winchester,  Salisbury,  Lincoln,  and 
Westminster,  are  all  larger.  In  regard,  therefore, 
to  the  effect  arising  from  mere  dimensions,  no 
superiority  can  be  claimed  for  the  York  building, 
at  least  none  that  is  striking  to  the  eye. 

2d.  As  to  its  exterior  aspect  and  ornaments,  the 
entire  Minster  being  formed  apparently,  as  well  as 
actually,  of  an  aggregation  of  edifices,  not  very 
harmoniously  and  artfully  associated,  presents  to 
the  eye  an  extremely  irregular  outline,  composed 
also,  of  five  distinct  species  of  Gothic  architecture: 
this  impresses  the  beholder  with  a  sensation  of 
laboured  confusion,  rather  than  of  admirable  vast- 
ness ;  for,  the  vision  being  broken  into  fragments, 
can  no  where  rest  upon  the  whole  at  once,  so  as  to 
excite  those  sublime  emotions,  consequent  upon  the 
contemplation  of  great  magnitude ;  nor  are  the 
towers  of  sufficient  height  to  raise  in  us  those 
delightful  sensations.  In  respect,  also,  to  the  plea- 
sure derived  from  the  multiplicity  and  beauty  of 
exterior  decorations,  the  cathedrals  of  Wells,  West- 


CATHEDRALIZING.  213 

minster,  Winchester,  Peterborough,  and  others, 
may  justly  claim  the  pahii.  The  infinitely  varied 
gothic  traceries,  tabernacle  work,  rosettes,  statues, 
devices,  ttc.  and,  in  fine,  all  of  those  rich  embel- 
lishments that  characterize  the  florid  gothic,  are, 
on  the  exterior  of  these  buildings,  superior  to  those 
of  the  Minster.  The  locale,  also,  of  the  York 
building  is  singularly  l)ad  for  the  display  of  its 
magnitude,  its  beauties,  or  its  defects.  It  is  en- 
compassed almost  on  every  side  by  narrow  streets, 
and  indifferent  buildings,  which  so  crowd  upon  it, 
as  to  intercept  its  full  view  from  every  point. 

Externally,  the   Minster    presents  on   its    main 
front  facing  the  west,  two  towers  of  equal  height, 
each   surmounted  by   eight  crocketted  pinnacles, 
united  by  a  very  low  battlement.     These  towers, 
each  pierced  with  three  windows,  are  neither  lofty, 
nor  highly  decorated ;  and  yet  they  are  still  more 
embellished  than   the  other  exterior  parts  of   the 
building.     On  this  western  facade  are  three  doors, 
one  piercing  each  tower ;  and  the  main  one,  in  the 
centre,  is  a  double  arched  door,  with  a  rude  statue 
of  a  Vavasor  and  a  Percy,  on  the  right  and  left. 
Immediately  over  this  door  is  the  great  Western 
Window;  and  the  front,  generally,  is  relieved  by 
niches,  almost  destitute,  however,  at  this  time,  of 
images  or  other  devices,  so  essential  in  the  idea  of 
gothic  architecture.     Leaving  this  western   front, 
and  following  the  line  of  the  cathedral  to  the  south, 
we  find  in  the  centre  of  the  building  a  very  large, 
but  low  square  tower,  with  but  little  ornament,  and 
in  most  respects  unworthy  of  its  place,  as  it  har- 
19 


214  CATHEDRALIZING. 

monizes  but  little,  even  with  the  plain  gothic 
which,  so  generally,  marks  the  exterior.  At  this 
point  is  the  south  entrance,  which,  though  not  so 
imposing  as  that  on  the  west  front,  is  not  destitute 
of  ornament.  The  courses  of  steps  leading  up  to 
the  south  transept,  the  four  octangular  turrets,  the 
great  Marigold  Window,  and  the  little  square  turret 
just  above  it,  give  considerable  variety  to  this 
facade,  but  no  sublimity  or  grandeur  whatever.  In 
proceeding  further  towards  the  east  front,  nothing 
breaks  the  outline  of  this  south  side,  and  we  arrive 
at  the  east  fa9ade  with  great  expectations,  as  being 
remarkable,  not  only  for  a  more  chaste  style  than 
the  other  fronts,  but  for  the  much  vaunted  East 
Window,  which  is  seventy -jive  feet  in  height,  and 
is,  undoubtedly,  if  that  be  a  merit,  the  largest 
window  in  the  world !  This  window,  viewed 
from  the  exterior,  is  certainly  very  striking  both 
from  its  magnitude,  and  graceful  form  ;  but  the 
fame  of  its  stained  glass,  if  ever  deserved,  has 
long  since  departed  from  it ;  for  it  strikes  the  eye  as 
a  merely  confused  congeries  of  ill-sorted  bits  of 
glass,  rudely  blended  with  slips  of  lead,  having  no 
visible  or  comprehensive  design,  and  as  wholly 
destitute  of  beauty  as  can  well  be  imagined.  The 
mind  in  search  of  the  evidences  of  contrivance  and 
of  beauty,  adverts  neither  to  the  vastness  of  the 
opening,  thus  charged  with  lead  and  glass,  nor  to 
the  vast  expense  of  time  and  of  money  said  to 
have  been  bestowed  on  it,  nor  yet  to  the  skill  and 
extraordinary  patience  of  the  artist,  but  solely  to 


CATHEDRALIZING.  215 

those  instantaneous  sensations  of  delight  which  it 
is  the  province  of  beauty,  or  of  sublimity  to  excite. 
Now,  I  am  free  to  confess,  I  am  Goth  enough 
to  admit  that,  when  casting  my  eye  over  this 
'finest  window  in  the  world,'  and  which  Drake 
says  'is  justly  called  the  wonder  of  the  world, 
both  for  masonry  and  glazing.'  1  felt  great  dis- 
appointment, and  found  quite  as  much  positive 
ugliness,  as  beauty,  and  though,  after  closely 
examining  it  from  the  interior,  my  judg7nent  be- 
came satisfied  that  it  originally  must  have  cost 
both  skill  and  unwearied  patience,  and  that  the 
artist  had  richly  earned  more  than  his  daily  pit- 
tance during  the  years  occupied  by  him  in  its 
various  combinations ;  yet,  was  I  still  more  con- 
firmed that  it  is,  and  ever  was,  a  confused  mass, 
as  destitute  of  simplicity  and  of  every  element  of 
laste  and  of  beauty,  as  almost  any  other  human 
labour  that  cost  so  much  of  time,  expectation,  and 
expense.  This  east  end  is  somewhat  impaired  by 
the  ravages  of  time  ;  the  niches  have  almost  dis- 
appeared, and  but  ie-^  statues  grace  either  them, 
or  the  buttresses.  Proceeding  towards  the  north 
side,  and  at  the  corner  of  the  transept,  we  are 
met  by  the  once  splendid  Chapter-House;  which, 
though  it  somewhat  mars  the  beauty  of  the  out- 
hne,  has  ever  been  regarded  as  the  pride  of  the 
whole  Minster.  Passing  by  this,  for  the  present, 
we  reach  the  north  facade,  which  brings  us  once 
more  to  our  starting  point.  This  north  front  is  yet 
in  a  plainer  style  than  any  of  the  others,  though 


216  CATHEDRALIZING. 

graced  with  the  celebrated  windows  known  by  the 
name  of  the  'Five  Maiden  Sisters.' 

Having  now  passed  hastily  round  the  building, 
we  are  prepared  to  examine  the  glories  within. 

3d.  The  interior  aspect  and  ornaments. — Much 
of  the  imposing  etfect  on  entering  the  Minster 
depends  upon  the  portal  by  which  you  are  ad- 
mitted; which  should  be,  especially  on  your  first 
entrance,  by  the  western  door,  and  not  into  the 
south  transept,  as  is  so  usual.  By  the  former 
passage,  your  eye  takes  in,  at  once,  the  whole 
range  of  the  nave,  transept,  and  choir,  of  more 
than  five  hundred  feet  in  length!  A  gallery  sus- 
tained by  arches,  follows  this  long  line  of  the 
nave,  extending  to  the  transept  two  hundred  and 
sixty  feet,  and  is  decorated  with  the  armorial 
bearings  of  the  Minster's  patrons.  On  the  two 
side  aisles,  over  their  entrances,  are  some  finely 
executed  basso-relievoes,  representing  ancient  rural 
sports;  and  these  aisles  are  lighted  by  sixteen 
windows,  fourteen  of  which  are  glazed  with  stain- 
ed glass.  Over  the  centre  of  the  transept  is  the 
arch  of  the  central  tower,  lighted  by  eight  win- 
dows, and  the  ceiling  of  this,  as  also  of  the  nave, 
and  aisles,  is  of  wood  painted,  and  ornamented 
with  traceries.  In  the  central  knot  of  the  ceiling 
of  the  tower,  are  two  figures  of  St.  Peter  and  St. 
Paul ;  which,  however,  are  too  small  to  be  seen 
with  the  least  effect,  the  height  being  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty-eight  feet  from  the  pavement ! 
At  the  north-east  corner  is  the  entrance  into  the 
Chapter  House,  and  between  the  transept  and  the 


CATHEDRALIZING.  217 

choir  is  a  magnificent  stone  screen,  which  sepa- 
rates to  a  certain  height,  the  nave  from  the  choir. 
This  screen  was  surmounted  before  the  late  fire, 
by  a  magnificent  organ,  which  contained  3,254 
pipes,  and  52  stops,  and  which  has  probably  been 
replaced  by  a  still  larger  one. 

The   Chapter   House,   an    octagon    building   of 
about  sixty-five  feet  in  diameter,  must  have  been, 
originally,  by  far  the  most  magnificent  part  of  the 
cathedral,    but    has    now   gone    nearly    to    ruin. 
Sufficient  remains,    however,   to   indicate   its  for- 
mer splendour.     The  massive  doors  covered  with 
iron   scrolls,    the   richly   gilt   and    painted   dome, 
the  seven  Gothic  windows  of  stained  glass,  which 
nearly  occupy   the   octagon,   the   forty-four   stalls 
with   rich    canopies   of  curiously  carved   devices, 
the   Virgin   Mother    treading   on   the  serpent,  the 
silver  statues  of  the  twelve  apostles,  on  the  low 
pedestals  which  still  remain,  the  numerous  slender 
and  graceful  columns,  which  pass  on  each  side  of 
the   stalls,   embellished   with    richly   gilt    capitals 
and  many  strangely  grotesque  figures  and  devices, 
designed  to  caricature  the  secular  clergy  of  those 
times,  and  the  exquisitely  beautiful  tracery-work 
with  numerous  other  decorations,  all  in  their  pri- 
mitive freshness,  must  have  presented  a  gorgeous 
scene  greatly  heightened,  too,  when  the  forty- four 
church  dignitaries  jn  their  richest  vestments  were 
seated  in  their  respective  stalls !     At  the  entrance 
of  the  door  which  occupies  the  eighth  side  of  the 
octagon,  may  still   be    seen    in    large   gilt   Saxon 
letters,  the  following  lines  in  praise  either  of  the 
19* 


218  CATHEDRALIZING. 

Minster   at    large,  or  of   the    Chapter  House   in 

particular,  probably  the  former. 

Ut  Rosa  phlos  phlorum 

Sic  est  Domus,  ista  domorum. 

Which,  in  our  vernacular,  may  be  spread  out 
thus — 'As  the  rose  is  chiefest  among  flowers,  so  is 
this  house  among  houses.' 

Over  this  entrance  are  the  niches  for  the 
apostles  and  virgin;  but  these  splendid  silver-gilt 
statues  fell  a  prey  to  the  rapacious  Old  Harry,  of 
monastery-loving  memory  !  The  construction  of 
the  vaulted  roof,  supported  neither  by  arch  nor  pil- 
lar, is  said  to  be  a  master-piece  of  architectural 
skill.  It  is  wholly  of  wood  plastered,  and  was 
highly  decorated — but  its  glories  are  now  nearly 
extinct. 

The  screen,  to  which  I  have  alluded  as  sepa- 
rating the  nave  from  the  choir,  is  certainly  at  this 
time  the  most  beautiful  and  interesting  object  of 
the  cathedral.  It  is  in  perfect  preservation,  and 
probably  far  exceeds  the  much  admired  screen  of 
the  Confessor  in  Westminster  Abbey  when  perfect, 
but  which  is  now  a  ruin.  The  splendour  which 
once  reigned  in  the  Chapter  House,  was  in  a  great 
degree  the  result  of  gilding  and  painting,  but  the 
stone  screen  is  a  work  of  matchless  skill,  of  un- 
wearied labour,  of  great  fertility  of  design,  and  is 
altogether  a  chef  (Tmuvre  that  would  probably  put 
to  shame,  if  not  the  taste,  at  least  the  ingenuity  of 
the  best  artists  and  sculptors  of  our  age.  The 
massive  stone  has  become  instinct  with  life — has 
lost   its   solidity,  is  .seen   into  deeply  beyond   its 


CATHEDRALIZING.  219 

surface,  like  the  wonderfully  elaborated  work  of 
the  Cliinese  in  ivory,  still  the  marvel  of  many 
who  remove  the  difficulty,  only  by  insisting  that 
the  ivory  has  been  softened,  so  that  its  delicate 
lace  work  becomes  an  ordinary  manipulation,  re- 
quiring little  else  than  mechanical  patience.  But 
this  cannot  be  said  of  the  brittle  material  which 
composes  the  screen.  No  Papin's  digester — no 
chemic  art,  can  have  softened  this  stone  ;  and  the 
screen  presents  to  the  eye  a  study  for  a  week, 
composed  of  vines,  and  of  delicately  formed  leaves, 
of  insects,  animals,  and  reptiles,  done  to  the  life, 
and  many  of  them  concealed  as  it  were,  under 
others,  require  some  scrutiny  to  detect  them,  and 
when  discovered,  excite  unmingled  surprise  and 
delight!  The  screen  is  further  adorned  with 
fifteen  statues  as  large  as  life,  of  the  English 
monarchs,  from  the  Conqueror,  to  the  sixth  Henry 
inclusive;  and  when  viewed,  either  in  its  inte- 
grity, or  in  the  detail,  is  altogether  one  of  the  most 
attractive  objects  to  be  seen  in  this,  or  perhaps,  in 
any  other  cathedral. 

The  choir  is  in  admirable  taste :  the  tabernacle 
work  of  the  stalls  and  of  their  canopies,  though 
recent  restorations,  are  beautifully  wrought.  Some, 
however,  affect  to  lament  greatly  the  destruction  of 
the  old  substantial  and  more  deeply  carved  work; 
which,  though  confessedly  inferior  in  execution  to 
the  modern,  is  said  by  them  to  have  been  vast- 
ly more  effective,  when  viewed  somewhat  at  a 
distance.  Tiie  present  cathedra,  or  archbishop's 
throne,  and  the  pulpit,  are  truly  admirable.     The 


220  CATHEDRALIZING. 

choir,  like  the  nave,  has  a  gallery  supported  by- 
arches  ;  and  is  lighted  by  windows  that  rise  nearly 
to  the  height  of  the  roof — and  it  is  here,  likewise, 
that  we  find  the  famous  east  window,  which  be- 
comes somewhat  transparent  but  still  remains  a 
confused  jargon,  so  to  speak,  of  colours,  void  of 
pictorial  design. 

Having  thus  cursorily  passed  entirely  round  the 
interior,  as  well  as  the  exterior  of  the  building, — a 
few  particulars  may,  perhaps,  be  indulged  in,  as 
necessary  to  a  little  further  vindication  of  the  dis- 
position I  have  manifested,  to  differ  in  some  degree 
from  the  unquahfied  praise  so  lavishly  bestowed 
on  it  by  others. 

The  roof^  or  rather  the  ceiling,  as  before  re- 
marked is  of  wood^  painted  in  imitation  of  stone, 
and  is  ornamented  in  rather  a  crude  and  inelegant 
manner.  It  is,  moreover,  quite  too  low,  (except 
that  of  the  vault  of  the  central  tower)  and  comes 
actually  in  contact  with  the  apex  of  each  of  the 
great  windows !  The  material  of  the  roof  ill  har- 
monizes with  the  general  magnificence  and  soli- 
dity of  the  edifice,  and  is  inferior  to  the  ceilings  of 
several  other  English  cathedrals,  and  even  chapels. 
Hov/  much  does  it  fall  short  of  the  stone  vaults  of 
King's  chapel,  Cambridge,  of  St.  George's  chapel, 
at  Windsor,  and  how  immeasurably  behind  that  of 
the  Abbey  at  Westminster!  Tliese  all,  are  of 
wonderful  and  exquisite  workmanship;  they  sus- 
pend over  your  head  solid  and  eternal  masses  of 
stone,  exciting  almost  fearfully  sublime  emotions 
at  their  contemplation.      These  ponderous  cano- 


CATHEDRALIZING.  221 

pies,  the  envy  and  almost  the  opprobium  of  modem 
architects,  are  sometimes  perfectly  flat  or  horizon- 
tal, and  seem  a  wizzard  work  that  baffles  compre- 
hension, suspended  you  know  not  how,  and  mak- 
ing the  beholder  involuntarily  shrink,  lest  the  vast 
and  heavy  masses,  of  some  of  their  richly  carved 
figures,  of  more  than  a  ton's  weight,  should  for- 
sake their  fastenings,  and  crush  one  to  powder  ! 
And  yet,  these  massive  stones  are  often  rendered 
so  apparently  Hght  and  airy  by  the  sculptor's 
handy  art,  as  to  represent  some  gossamer  cover- 
ing— or  rich  drapery  of  lace,  and  ingenious  needle 
work,  embellished  with  golden  appliances  !  Who 
then,  would  compare  the  wooden,  though  painted 
and  gilded  ceilings,  of  York  Minster,  even  when 
in  their  original  freshness,  with  the  matchless 
magnificence,  and  architectural  skill,  that  hangs 
over  you,  within  the  edifice  just  mentioned ! 

So,  likewise,  much  has  been  unmeaningly  said 
as  to  the  stained  glass  which  abounds  in  the 
Minster.  In  quantity,  this  cathedral  certainly  ex- 
ceeds any  other  in  that  particular;  but,  iu  quality, 
and  in  pictorial  design  and  eflect,  it  seems  to  me 
extremely  defective  ;  and  the  eye  of  taste  and  of 
science  would  seem  to  be  less  gratified  in  this 
respect  in  the  Minster,  than  in  the  chapels  at 
Cambridge  and  Westminster,  and  in  some  of  the 
halls  and  public  buildings  of  other  places.  The 
^maiden  sisters''  of  the  Minster  are  certainly  emi- 
nently graceful,  and  worthy  of  their  name  in  this 
respect.  They  are  larger  than  any  of  the  windows 
in  the  chapels  and  halls  adverted  to,  but  do  not 


222  CATHEDRALIZING. 

equal  them  in  richness  and  beauty  of  colouring, 
nor  in  the  distinctnes  of  pictorial  design. 

These  remarks  apply  with  still  more  justness  to 
the  stained  glass  of  the  East  Window,  which  though 
seventy-five  feet  by  thirty-two  feet,  is  so  divided 
into  two  hundred  compartments,  great  and  small, 
and  subdivided  by  the  painter  almost  indefinitely, 
as  to  give  to  no  portion  of  it  a  clear  and  satisfac- 
tory effect !  The  designs  are  taken  mainly  from 
scriptural  subjects,  and  the  glazier,  one  John 
Thornton,  is  said  to  have  been  occupied,  during 
many  years,  commencing  in  1405,  with  the  mere 
manipulation  of  inserting  in  the  leads,  the  nume- 
rous pieces  of  glass  of  various  colours,  and  designs, 
that  compose  the  entire  work  !  If  the  original,  as 
it  came  from  master  Thornton's  hands,  did  not 
almost  wholly  vary  from  what  it  now  exhibits, 
(which  can  scarce  be  the  case,  as  I  have  now  before 
me  Drake's  ponderous  folio,  with  his  numerous  en- 
gravings, which  sufliciently  unfold  its  state  in 
palmy  days,)  it  must  ever  have  been  a  mass  of  con- 
fused devices  !  We  are  told,  indeed,  that  the  artist 
had  in  his  mind's  eye  very  many  curious  and  dis- 
tinct fancies,  which  embraced  nearly  the  whole  of 
Bible  history  ;  and  the  engravers,  with  much  pains, 
have  been  able  to  delineate  some  crude  outlines 
thereof;  but  no  eye,  as  we  think,  can  trace  them 
with  the  coup  cPosil  a  traveller  must  accord  to  it; 
and  the  painful  attention  of  an  artist  who  designs 
to  commit  the  result  to  paper,  is  out  of  the  question, 
as  this  would  require  some  days,  at  least ! 


CATHEDRALIZING.  223 

The  Armorial,  and  the  West  Window,  are  far 
more  satisfactory,  as  they  are  less  complex,  are 
more  transparent,  and  yield  the  designs  to  the  eye, 
with  infinitely  more  clearness  and  certainty.  The 
traditional  praise,  then,  so  uniformly  accorded  to 
this  East  Window,  over  all  others,  has  probably 
resulted  from  regarding  magnitude,  variety,  com- 
plexity, toil,  and  expense,  as  per  se  just  sources 
of  great  commendation.  It  is  the  province  and 
privilege,  however,  of  every  traveller,  to  look  with 
his  own  eyes,  and  to  judge  with  his  own  mind, 
regardless  of  time  sanctioned  praises. 

The  new  pavement,  also,  which  has  been,  not 
very  inappropriately,  called  mosaic,  has  been  greatly 
extolled,  and  with  little  justice.  About  a  century 
ago.  Lord  Burlington  prevailed  on  the  dean  and 
chapter  to  remove  the  old  pavement,  composed  of 
innumerable  grave  stones,  many  of  which,  as  the 
antiquarian  Francis  Drake  informs  us,  'formerly 
shone  like  embroidery,  being  enriched  with  ima- 
ges, &c.  in  brass,  of  bishops  and  of  other  ecclesias- 
tics represented  in  proper  habits.'  This  sacrilege 
was  somewhat  mitigated  by  the  fact  that  all  the 
old  marble  grave  stones,  though  entirely  robbed  of 
their  identity,  were  carefully  wrought  up,  and  used 
in  the  formation  of  the  new  pavement,  thus  having 
respect  to  economy,  if  not  to  taste,  and  to  the  me- 
mory of  the  honoured  and  lamented  dead  !  And 
the  act  would  have  been  still  further  expiated  had 
the  'mosaic'  fancy  of  my  Lord  Burlington  been 
more  worthy  the  noble  pile  it  was  designed  to 
grace.    But  we  have  to  quarrel  with  the  new  pave- 


224  CATHEDRALIZING. 

ment,  not  only  for  these  reasons,  but  for  the  remo- 
val of  the  eighty-eight  circles  curiously  wrought 
into  the  old  one,  as  so  many  statiofis  for  the  digni- 
taries of  the  church  to  stand  in,  during  the  pomp 
and  circumstance  attendant  upon  the  installations, 
and  on  other  solemn  occasions  !  These  ecclesias- 
tics, 'habited  according  to  their  proper  distinctions, 
and  clad  in  their  copes  and  vestments,  must  have 
made  a  glorious  appearance,'  says  Drake — who 
gave  to  the  world  his  massive  folio,  in  the  very 
year  that  this  work  of  destruction  by  the  tasteful 
Lord  Burlington,  was  going  on. 

I  have  now  given,  tediously  I  fear,  as  is  nearly 
unavoidable  in  such  details,  my  notions  of  this 
famous  cathedral,  and  some  brief  reasons  for  dis- 
senting in  part,  from  the  customary  language  in- 
dulged in — such  as,  '■the  cathedral  appears  like  a 
vast  mountain  starting  out  of  a  plain'' — Ht  is  the 
most  august  of  temples'' — '■its  vastness  and  beauty 
impress  the  observer  with  awe  and  sublimitif—^^the 
glory  of  the  kingdom'' — '•it  is  the  summit  of  scien- 
tific perfectioji  and  excellence,  not  to  be  surpassed'' — 
Hhe  finest  window  in  the  world'' — '■the  highest, 
lightest,  atid  tnost  extensive  arch  in  the  world^  (fcc. 
(fcc.  These,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  are  rather  inordi- 
nate expressions,  excusable  enough,  when  flowing 
from  the  hasty  and  ardent  pen  of  a  patriotic  En- 
glishman, but  essentially  wrong  in  one  really  in 
search  of  truth,  and  especially  so,  when  looking 
after  the  elements  of  comparative  excellence.  The 
fact  is,  this  noble  pile  has  too  much  solid  worth, 
and  real  beauty,  to  need  such  indiscriminate  and 


AN   OLLA-PODRIDA.  225 

untruthful  praise;  and,  like  the  loveliness  that 
flows  not  from  regular  features;,  but  which  shadows 
forth  the  riches  of  a  fine  intellect  within,  the  Mins- 
ter of  York  must  ever  command  our  sober  venera- 
tion for  much  intrinsic  worth  ;  though,  when  exa- 
mining its  features,  we  may  be  compelled  to  pro- 
nounce them  often  'rudely  stamped,'  and  cast  into 
a  'perverse  mould.' 


NOTE    XVIII. AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

The  Spaniards  have  a  dish  of  much  note  among 
them,  consisting  of  many  meats,  and  other  savoury 
things,  stewed  together  with  little  regard  to  homo- 
geneity •,  and  it  is  sometimes  convenient  for  authors 
thus  to  deal  a  la  cuisinier,  when  one  knows  not 
exactly  what  he  means  to  write  about.  What  I 
have  now  to  say  is  yet  all  m  nubibus — it  may  be 
one  thing,  various,  and  any  thing,  just  as  my  pen 
shall  vouchsafe.  I  do  remember  an  old  French 
cook,  whose  master  loved  good  things,  but  kept  so 
tight  a  string  over  his  purse,  and  doled  out  to  his 
faithful  Jacques,  the  viands  and  the  condiments, 
witli  so  niggard  a  hand,  that  his  dinners  always 
seemed  the  result  of  accident,  and  surprised  the 
servant  and  master,  quite  as  much  as  was  Dr. 
Brewster,  when,  from  a  few  fragments  of  stones, 
of  glass,  and  of  tinsel,  all  the  varied  beauties  of 
the  kaleidoscope  arose  to  his  astonished  view. 
And  so  it  is  with  an  author  sometimes  ;  the  re- 
sults are  essentially  accidental — they  have  nothing 
to  do  with  calculation — the  reckless  experimenter 
20 


226  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

is  as  ignorant  of  what  may  follow,  as  are  the  brute 
materials  with  which  he  may  operate ;  and  how  I 
shall  come  out  of  my  Olla-Podrida,  I  can  no  more 
say,  than  can  my  standish  and  its  black  contents, 
or  the  steel  pen,  its  vehicle — on  all  of  which  I  am 
so  slavishly  dependent  for  the  avails.  These  mat- 
ters premised,  proceed  we  now  to  the  intended  pot 
pourri. 

I  have  just  returned  from  a  walk,  among  some 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  Nature's  works,  over  the 
Apennines,  between  the  litile  town  of  Frejus,  and 
the  old,  walled,  and  fortified  city  of  Antibes. 
When  I  descended  from  my  carriage  to  pluck 
fiowers  on  the  way,  and  to  survey  all  around  me 
the  many  lovely  prospects  that  enchanted  my 
view,  the  sun  was  fast  declining,  and  many  float- 
ing clouds  cast  their  shadows  upon  the  boundless 
forests,  the  towering  rocks,  and  the  small  valleys 
that  reposed  in  luxuriance  between  the  mountains. 
These  all  filled  my  soul  with  such  a  crowd  of 
images,  that  on  reaching  the  locanda,  I  fell  into 
a  kind  of  dreamy  reverie  upon  the  beauties  of 
nature — I  then  glanced  over  my  note  book,  and 
found  that  some  similar  reflections  had  been  there 
recorded  long  before.  I  then  seized  my  pen,  and 
poured  forth  some  more  of  these  feelings — and 
such  a  melange ! 

'Happy  he 
Whom  what  he  views  of  beautiful  or  grand 
In  nature,  from  the  broad  majestic  oak 
To  the  green  blade  that  twinkles  in  the  sun, 
Prompts  with  the  remembrance  of  a  present  God;' 


AN    OLLA-PODRIDA.  227 

for,  without  diving  witli  a   philosophic   eye   into 
the  recesses  of  nature,  the  most  irresistible  evi- 
dences of  a  divine  architect  are  reflected  from  the 
most  simple  objects  which  present  themselves. 
Whether  we  contemplate  the  starry  orbs, 

'Pursue  the  comets  where  they  farthest  run, 
And  bring  them  back  obsequious  to  the  sun,' 

or  descend  to  this  our  globe,  and  examine  the 
admirable  conformity  of  the  whole  ;  or  whether  we 
enter  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  behold  the 
rich  mines  of  valuable  metals,  earths,  spars  and 
fossils  of  various  kinds ;  or  lastly,  whether  we 
examine  the  meanest  of  nature's  animated  beings, 
we  cannot  but  be  lost  in  amazement  at  the  wonder- 
ful mechanism,  the  wisdom,  goodness  and  mercy 
displayed  in  tlieir  formation  !  The  existence  of  a 
God  being  sanctioned  by  such  irrefragable  evidence, 
how  blind,  nay,  how  perfectly  stupid  must  he  be, 
who  would  attribute  this  exquisite  workmanship  to 
the  fortuitous  junction  of  atoms,  the  whirling  of 
vortices,  or  the  principle  of  elementary  attractions ! 
These  affinities,  however  plausibly  they  may  ac- 
count for  the  formation  of  organized  inanimate 
matter,  certainly  leave  us  perfectly  in  the  dark  as 
to  the  origin  of  life  ;  for,  as  Rousseau  sensibly 
observes,  'the  chemist  with  all  his  art  in  com- 
pounds, has  never  yet  found  sensation  or  thought  at 
the  bottom  of  his  crucible.'  The  proof,  therefore, 
of  the  existence  of  a  being  who  is  the  originator 
of  mind  and  matter — of  a  being  transcendant  in 
wisdom  and  goodness,  being  so  prominent  in  the 


228  AN   OLXA-PODRIDA. 

features  of  surrounding  nature,  it  is  the  duty  of 
parents  and  tutors  early  to  habituate  their  children 
and  pupils  to  the  contemplation  of  the  harmonies, 
perfections  and  sublimities  which  momentarily 
crowd  upon  the  mind,  and  to  teach  them  to  behold 
this  mass  of  loveliness  with  a  discriminating  eye, 
and  a  grateful  heart. 

How  amply  does  the  traveller  of  taste  expatiate 
on  the  beauties  of  nature — with  what  enthusiasm 
does  he  admire  the  tremendous  cataract,  the  'cloud 
capt'  mountains,  the  wild  luxuriancy  of  the  mea- 
dows, the  rude  impending  rocks,  and  the  bold 
majestic  flow  of  an  expanded  river— these  are 
among  the  beauties  and  sublimities  of  what  is 
called  nature — on  these  he  dwells  with  rapture, 
but,  perhaps,  without  once  reflecting  that 

'Nature  is  but  a  name  for  an  effect, 
Wliose  cause  is  God.' 

When  we  raise  our  eyes  to  the  spangled  vault 
of  heaven,  and  behold  myriads  of  shining  spheres — 
when  we  reflect  that  most  of  these  are  globes  like 
ours;  peopled  with  inhabitants  in  the  pursuit  of 
the  same  ends  that  we  are — when  we  consider  that 
many  of  these  stars  are  but  suns  to  other  systems ; 
and  that  these  systems  are,  perhaps,  but  component 
parts  of  others,  upon  a  still  grander  and  more  sub- 
lime scale,  how  noble  is  the  thought — how  useful  is 
the  lesson  that  may  be  deduced  from  it.  We  learn 
to  consider  ourselves  but  as  mites  in  the  creation — 
it  checks  our  pride,  ennobles  our  ideas  of  the  plans 
and  views  of  the  Creator,  and  teaches  us  to  be 
humble  and  virtuous.     In  descending  in  our  con- 


AN    OLLA-PODRIDA.  229 

templation  from  the  vast  expanse  of  the  universe 
to  the  place  of  our  own  habitation — we  cannot  but 
be  charmed  with  the  harmonies,  the  admirable 
economy  and  boundless  profusion  of  blessings  and 
conveniences  every  where  displayed. 

The  first  grand  and  sublime  objects  which  at- 
tracts our  attention  is,  the  boundless  Ocean.  Here 
we  behold  power  in  its  vastness,  wisdom  in  its 
moiions,  and  goodness  in  its  coiiteiits.  Whether 
we  see  the  surface  as  a  polished  speculum,  reflect- 
ing the  passing  clouds,  or  view  it  in  its  wildest 
rage,  rolling  mountainous  waves  against  each  other, 
our  souls  dilate  with  awful  sublimity,  and  involun- 
tary ejaculations  ascend  to  Him  who  in  wisdom 
bridles  the  angry  billows,  and  keeps  them  within 
their  proper  bounds. 

In  contemplating  the  vastness  of  the  ocean,  if 
we  reflect  that  the  smallest  drop  of  water  is  com- 
puted to  contain  many  thousand  globules,  what 
myriads  must  compose  that  grand  mass  i  which 
encompasses  our  globe !  let  the  ablest  Newton  en- 
deavour to  compute  the  number — as  well  may  he 
attempt  to  compress  the  ocean  in  a  vial,  or  measure 
the  universe  with  a  span  ! 

In  the  deep  recesses  of  this  watery  empire, 
dwells  the  mighty  Leviathan.  Here  the  walrus 
and  the  whale  pay  him  court,  and  myriads  of  the 
smaller  race  supply  him  with  food.  The  ocean 
itself  feels  his  weight,  and  the  waves  yield  to  his 
massy  sides. 

This  vast  expanse  of  water  is  the  great  reservoir 
from  which  the  clouds  are  exhaled,  to  shelter  us 
20* 


230  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

from  the  piercing  beams  of  the  sun — to  cool  the 
atmosphere,  and  descend  on  our  plains  in  genial 
dews  and  showers — from  it  proceeds  our  coohng 
fountains,  the  meandering  stream,  the  majestic 
river  and  the  tremendous  cataract — these  supply 
the  vegetable  world  with  their  chief  nutriment, 
and  give  to  man  that  pabulum,  without  which  life 
could  not  be  sustained. 

Let  us  next  attend  to  the  earth  itself.  We  per- 
ceive it  to  be  diversified  with  mountains,  woods, 
hills  and  dales — with  rocks,  fountains,  caverns, 
rivers  and  streams.  These  unevennesses,  so  far 
from  being  blemishes  or  defects,  greatly  heighten 
its  beauty. 

Here  we  see  it  rise  in  huge  and  massy  moun- 
tains, whose  rugged  sides  seem  to  defy  ascent, 
much  less  cultivation.  There  it  is  scooped  into 
extensive  vales,  covered  with  the  richest  verdure. 
To  this  succeeds  a  wide  champaign  country, 
ornamented  with  meadows — the  varied  coloured 
orchard — the  golden  harvest,  and  the  contented 
cottage.  At  a  greater  distance,  we  perceive  the 
mountains  raise  their  aspiring  peaks,  and  border- 
ing our  horizon  like  so  many  dark  majestic  clouds, 
their  frozen  summits  attracting  the  moisture  of  the 
heavens,  to  pour  them  in  genial  dews  upon  the 
fertile  vales  below. 

Let  us  enter  the  woods — here  we  behold  the 
oak,  the  monarch  of  the  forest — the  elm,  the 
pride  of  spring — the  maple,  distilling  its  juices, 
to  supply  us  with  sugar — the  luxuriant  verdure 
of   the   cedar,   pine   and    hemlock — and   the   fair 


AN   OLLA-PODRIDA.  231 

beech,  offering  its  umbrageous  boughs,  whilst  we 
make  its  pohshed  bark  the  depository  and  conser- 
vator of  some  favourite  name. 

What  a  pleasant  retreat  do  the  woods  afford  the 
beasts  of  the  field  from  the  inclemencies  of  the 
winter,  or  the  scorching  rays  of  a  vertical  sun ! 
Here  we  see  those  vast  plants  receiving  their  chief 
nutriment  from  the  moisture  of  the  earth,  supplied 
with  refreshing  showers  from  the  heavens,  and 
inhaling  the  air  by  their  leaves  from  the  surround- 
ing atmosphere.  These  supply  us  with  fuel  for 
various  uses — timber  for  our  habitations,  and  serve 
us  also  as  conveyances  to  distant  climes  to  supply 
ourselves  with  the  necessaries  and  luxuries  of  life, 
and  convey  ours  to  them.  Thus  is  it,  that  the 
various  nations  of  the  earth,  by  a  social  inter- 
course, become  humanized — imbibe  a  fellow-feel- 
ing for  each  other,  and  view  one  another  rather  in 
the  light  of  members  of  one  large  family,  than  as 
nations  having  no  other  relation  than  as  beings 
inhabiting  the  same  globe. 

If  we  view  the  ground,  we  find  it  enamelled 
with  flowers  and  shrubs  of  various  sorts.  These 
not  only  delight  the  eye  by  the  richness  of  their 
colours,  and  greet  the  smell  with  their  grateful 
odours,  but  serve  as  food  both  for  man  and  other 
animals,  and  likewise  furnish  us  with  various 
drugs   essential  to  the  preservation  of  our  health. 

If  we  enter  the  orchard,  what  an  ample  demon- 
stration of  our  Creator's  kindness  have  we  here 
displayed !  we  behold  the  trees  bending  to  the 
earth  with  their  luxuriant  burthens.     Part  of  their 


232  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

mellow  treasures  quit  their  parent  tree  and  aiford  a 
delicious  food  to  the  diiferent  animals  which  repose 
under  their  shade — the  little  songsters  of  the  wood 
perch  on  the  boughs  and  take  their  welcomed  por- 
tion of  nature's  bounty — nay,  the  flies,  and  very 
insects  of  the  air  are  here  supplied  by  their  boun- 
teous Creator.  Not  only  the  trees  and  the  fertile 
bosom  of  the  earth,  but  the  very  atmosphere  is 
impregnated  with  food  for  the  animalculas  which 
inhabit  it.  In  fact,  the  whole  earth  is  a  vast  ma- 
gazine from  which  we  and  they  are  supplied,  as 
our  and  their  necessities  require ;  for 

'The  Holy  Power  that  clothes  the  senseless  earth, 
With  woods,  with  fruits,  with  flowers  and  verdant  grass. 
Whose  bounteous  hands  feed  the  whole  brute  creation. 
Knows  all  our  wants,  and  has  enough  to  give  us. — Rou-e. 

How  extatic  is  it,  when  rising  in  the  morning, 
renovated  and  refreshed  by  the  balm  of  sleep,  to 
behold  the  beauties  of  the  rising  orb  of  day. 
Aurora  comes  with  all  her  varied  hues — Phcebus 
mounts  triumphant  in  the  east,  whilst  the  lenient 
air  breathes  the  most  delicious  odours.  The  little 
feathered  songsters,  concealed  in  their  verdant 
abodes,  delighted  with  smiling  nature,  pour  forth 
their  melody,  borne  on  the  gentle  breeze  to  listen- 
ing man.  At  a  distance  we  behold  the  polished 
surface  of  a  lake  reflecting  from  her  fair  bosom  the 
pendant  trees  which  crowd  the  margin — the  fleecy 
mists,  wafted  from  their  parent  waters  to  the  moun- 
tain's top,  refract  the  ruddy  beams  of  the  rising 
5un,  and  present  the  most  sublimely  magnificent 
scene  that  can  be  imagined.     The  clouds  as  they 


AN   OLLA-PODRIDA.  233 

gradually  dissipate  by  the  dissolving  influence  of 
the  solar  beams,  assume  the  most  fantastic  shapes, 
whilst,  according  to  their  various  densities,  they 
reflect  the  light  in  all  the  vivid  and  charming 
colours  of  the  rainbow.  What  a  blind  infatua- 
tion— what  a  perversion  of  judgment  is  it  in  those 
curious  beings  who  travel  from  Abyla  and  Calpi, 
to  the  shores  of  the  Pacific,  to  see  and  purchase  at 
enormous  prices,  various  happy  imitations  of  na- 
ture's beauties,  and  are  yet  insensible  to  such  real 
beauties, and  would  rather  remain  in  sluggard  sleep, 
than  rise  and  contemplate  scenes  so  far  transcend- 
in?  the  finest  delineations  of  art.  In  the  verdant 
meadow  we  hear  the  bleating  of  the  flocks — the 
murmuring  of  the  distant  rill — the  cooing  of  the 
solitary  dove — the  freshest  exhalations  of  softened 
nature  salute  our  smell — our  eyes  are  delighted 
with  myriads  of  wild  flowrets, 

'Arrayed 
In  all  the  colours  of  the  flushing  year,' 

and  hiding  their  beauteous  blossoms  in  the  sur- 
rounding verdure.  Tliese  are  scenes  worthy  phi- 
losophic contemplation — they  are  scenes  which 
inspire  love  for  the  great  Author  of  their  forma- 
tion, and  forcibly  shew  us  how  vastly  nature 
exceeds  the  finest  touches  of  the  pencil  of  art. 
Retiring  from  the  growing  influence  of  the  sun 
to  our  chamber,  we  may  here  muse  on  the  plea- 
sures aflbrded  us  by  our  morning  walk — we  may 
contemplate  nature  in  books — we  may  amuse  our- 
selves in  delineating  her  beauties  on  canvass;  and, 
as  recollection  brings  them  to  our  view,  the  rude 


234  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

sketches  of  the  pencil  paint  them  more  forcibly 
to  our  mind.  These  are,  to  be  sure,  secondary 
pleasures,  but  the  ardent  and  impassioned  admirer 
of  nature  is  far  from  neglecting  them. — When  in 

'The  western  sky  the  downward  sun 
Looks  out  efi'ulgent  from  amid  the  flush 
Of  broken  clouds,  gay  shifting  to  his  beam,' 

we  may  once  more  sally  forth  to  inhale  the  odours 
of  tlie  evening,  and  mark  the  progressive  influ- 
ence of  the  departing  sun  on  the  surrounding 
scenery.  The  melody  of  the  groves  is  revived — 
nature  is  re-animated  from  the  burning  influence 
of  the  sun — the  ox  and  the  plough-horse  cease 
from  their  labours — and  the  honest  farmer  seated 
before  his  door 

'Musing  praise  and  looking  lively  gratitude,' 

rests  his  wearied  limbs  from  the  toils  of  the  day, 
and  enjoys  the  sweets  of  society  with  his  wife, 
children,  and  friendly  neighbour.  And  then,  how 
pleasing  is  it  to  observe  the  harmless  cows  on  the 
margin  of  the  river,  returning  in  formal  procession 
to  pay  their  voluntary  tribute  to  the  industrious 
milk-maid,  whilst  others,  more  dilatory  in  their 
movements,  luxuriously  bathe  their  scorched  sides 
in  the  limpid  waters,  and  lash  with  their  flowing 
tails  the  teazing  gad-flies. 

The  noisy  geese  and  waddling  ducks  return  to 
their  resting  place — nature  finally  assumes  a  calm 
and  pleasing  tranquillity,  undisturbed,  save  by  the 
screech  of  the  solitary  owl,  or  the  mournful  notes 
of  the  lonely  whippero'will. 


AN   OLLA-PODRIDA.  235 

It  is  at  this  delightful  period  that  the  garden 
sends  forth  its  most  grateful  odours — the  even- 
ing zephyrs  carry  on  their  wings  the  sweet 
scented  Callicanthus — the  perfumes  of  the  carna- 
tion and  the  exhilirating  odours  of  the  varied 
coloured  Polianthus. 

The  botanist  has  wandered  from  bed  to  bed, 
contemplating  their  beauties,  their  relationship  to 
each  other,  and  arranging  them  according  to  their 
class  and  order.  He  now  reviews  them  in  his 
closet,  with  an  eye  which  discovers  a  crowd  of 
beauties,  of  which  those  ignorant  of  this  charming 
science  are  totally  unacquainted. 

The  vegetable  physiologist  contemplates  them 
as  distinguished  by  sex — investigates  their  facul- 
ties of  perception — observes  their  modes  of  pro- 
pagation and  fecundation,  marks  their  different 
ways  of  inspiration  and  expiration — their  diseases 
both  contagious  and  infectious — sees  them  liable 
to  hunger  and  thirst — and  lastly,  views  them 
gradually  destroyed  by  age,  and  yielding  to  that 
monarch  to  which  all  nature  pays  the  tribute  of 
death. 

Let  us  go  beyond  the  garden,  and  pay  a  moon- 
light visit  to  a  neighbouring  water-fall.  In  this 
delightful  spot  has  sportive  nature  combined  every 
thing  pleasing  to  the  eye,  or  that  may  in  any  way 
inspire  sublime  emotions — the  wild  rurality  of  the 
scene — the  roaring  of  the  waters — the  echoed  res- 
ponses from  the  surrounding  rocks,  the  deep  and 
clustered  foliage  of  trees — here  shutting  out — 
there    admitting   the   moonlight,   all    conspire   to 


236  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

delight  the  beholder.  The  massy  rocks  rudely- 
suspending  their  naked  heads  over  the  rushing 
waters — the  white  foaming  surges  mixing  their 
troubled  waves  with  the  lucid  stream  which  flows 
on  with  majestic  dignity  below — added  to  the 
sombre  shades  of  the  encompassing  rocks  and 
trees,  form  altogether  a  picture  both  sublime  and 
beautiful.  Sublimity  awakens  the  soul,  calls  it 
into  action,  and  fills  it  with  sensibilities  the  most 
lively,  perceptible  and  pleasing;  and  scenes  of  this 
kind  display  the  true  picturesque,  for  here  is  a 
happy  combination  of  beauty  and  sublimity,  the 
latter  of  which  never  makes  a  scene  picturesque. 
Landscapes  which  raise  no  sublime  emotions, 
are  often  called  picturesque,  and  this,  no  doubt, 
with  propriety — but  when  sublimity  is  united 
with  beauty,  the  effect  is  the  genuine  picturesque. 
Would  we,  then,  have  this  species  of  beauty  in 
perfection,  it  is  not  sufficient  that  we  find  massy 
rocks,  grand  mountains,  and  lofty  cascades  ;  but 
we  must  have  the  superadded  beauty  of  trees  and 
of  shrubs,  in  all  their  varied  positions,  figures  and 
colours,  together  with  the  glowing  and  mellow  tints 
of  the  atmosphere,  the  graceful  meanderings  of 
streams,  and  many  other  lovely  objects — and  when 
these  are  all  combined,  the  scene  is  then — a  j^ic- 
ture.  These,  though  more  usual  in  Italy  than 
elsewhere,  are  still  to  be  often  found  in  other 
lands. 

There  are,  perhaps,  in  the  world,  iew  countries 
where  nature  has  been  more  lavish  of  her  beau- 
ties than  in  ray  own  dear  America — and  few,  per- 


AN    OLLA-PODRIDA.  237 

haps,  which  present  so  many  interesting  subjects 
to  the  inteihgent  traveller.    True,  we  have  no  lofty- 
spires,  no  venerable  ruins,  no  dilapidated  castles — 
but  nature  presents  herself  in  her  primitive  garb — 
in  her  native  grandeur.    Why,  therefore,  should  our 
travelled  gentlemen  expatiate  with  so  much  enthu- 
siasm on  the  sublime  and  picturesque  beauties  of 
Switzerland,  Scotland,  and    the  confines  of  Ger- 
many, while  their  own  country  can  boast  of  so 
much    attractive    scenery?      The    answer,    I   am 
afraid,  is  too  obvious.     They  leave   their  native 
shores  to  visit  foreign  ones,  before  they  have  ever 
journeyed  far  from  their  natal  habitation,  and  often, 
long  before  they  have  laid  up  a  store  of  marketable 
commodities  (I  mean  ideas)  which  they  may  give 
in  exchange  for  those  they  receive  from  foreigners. 
What  is  more   sublime  than  the    highlands  of 
the  North  River — what  more  awfully  tremendous 
than  the  cataract  of  Niagara — what  more  romantic 
than  the  vale  of  Lebanon — what  can  surpass  the 
solemn   and    majestic    gloom  of  the    surrounding 
mountains  on   the  Gulph  road — the   pensive  and 
soothing   silence   of  the   groves   in    some   of  our 
glades — the  pastoral  simplicity  of  those  who  have 
retired  from  life,  into  some  of  the  rich  valleys  of 
Virginia — or  the  wild  luxuriancv  of  the  meadows 
of  the  far  west.     How  pleasing  is  it  to  contem- 
plate that  noble  spirit  of  perseverance,  which  has 
enabled  the  laborious    husbandman  to  climb  the 
loftiest  mountains,  and  change  the  rude  garb  of 
nature   for   the  rich  habiliments  of  cultivation — 
how  pleasing  is  it  to  behold  the  verdant  hills  rising 
21 


•^•jy  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

amphitheatrically  around — to  observe  the  progres- 
sive influence  of  the  departing  sun  on  the  distant 
Alieghanies,  or  the  bright  orb  of  day  rising  in  the 
pride  of  his  splendour,  gilding  them  with  his 
ruddy  Hght,  and  chasing  the  fogs  fantastically 
formed  upon  their  lofty  tops  ! 

But  enough,  and  more  than  enough  of 

these  mawkish  reflections  upon  the  beauties  of 
nature,  be  they  in  the  old  or  in  the  new  world  ! 
The  fact  is  that  sometimes  these  raptures  on  the 
wonders  of  creation,  and  especially  when  committed 
10  paper,  remind  me  of  my  childish  disappointment, 
and  even  loathing,  when  first,  in  an  apothecary's 
shop,  I  tasted  largely  of  mcmnal  Its  sweetness 
seduced  me  to  take  of  it  a  large  lump,  and  soon  its 
nauseating  combination  of  bitter  and  of  mawkish 
sweetness,  occasioned  me  to  repent  my  greedy 
rashness — and  so  now,  I  can  scarce  look  back 
upon  what  I  have  indited  about  mountains,  and 
streams,  and  rocks,  and  beasts,  and  birds,  (things 
most  lovely  to  behold  and  to  think  of,  but  which  so 
often  loose  their  delicate  flavours  when  embodied 
in  words,  unless  poetical^)  without  being  strongly 
reminded  thereby  of  my  boyish  horror  of  manna ! 

It   so    happened,   however,   that    on   my 

arriving  at  Antibes,  I  met  at  the  locanda  with  a 
valued  female  friend,  'all  away  across  the  blue 
waters  from  America' — and  who  is  one  of  our  most 
accomplished  countrywomen.  A  thousand  remi- 
niscences of  my  own  dear  land  rushed  into  my 
mind — and  her  refined  soul — her  lovely  manners — 
her  varied  accomplishmentSj  all  seemed  to  force 


AN   OLLA-PODRIDA.  239 

upon   my   iniiid   the   general   superiority,   in   our 
country,  of  that  sex  over  ours ! 

American  female  beauty,  though  like  the  early 
deciduous  blossoms  of  the  fairest  flowers,  is  con- 
fessedly eminent,  as  long  as  it  endures,  which 
alas !  like 

'The  sand  within  the  transitory  glass,' 
passes  so  fleetly  by  us,  that  we  have  scarce  lime 
suflicient  to  note  the  brilliant,  though  brief  riches 
of  her  varied  beauties:  for,  as  Spencer  saith, 

'If  saphyrs,  lo  !  her  eyes  be  saphyrs  plain ; 

If  rubies,  lo !  her  lips  be  rubies  sound ; 

If  pearls,  her  teeth  be  pearls,  both  pure  and  sound ; 

If  ivory,  her  forehead  ivory  ween; 

If  gold,  her  locks  are  finest  gold  on  ground  ; 

If  silver,  her  fair  hands  are  silver  sheen  : 

But  that  which  fairest  is,  but  few  behold, 

Her  mind  adorned  with  virtues  manifold.' 

And  yet  these  personal  charms  seldom  endure 
as  in  other  lands ;  but  the  excellences  of  her 
heart  and  mind  grow  with  her  growth,  and 
strengthen  with  her  strength. 

In  some  parts  of  our  country  the  disparity  be- 
tween the  sexes,  in  moral  as  well  as  in  intellectual 
worth,  is  very  striking:  the  hardy  occupations  of 
the  former,  leave  them  but  little  opportunity  to  em- 
bellish mind  or  manners;  and  the  somewhat  recluse 
and  easy  life  of  the  latter,  invite  to  study,  and  to 
much,  comparative,  refinement.  But,  even  in  those 
sections  of  our  extensive  country,  where  men  are 
well  educated,  and  in  which  the  accomplishments 
and  graces  and  polish  of  life,  are  not  neglected  by 
them,  the  women,   as  it  seems   to   me,  are  often 


240  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

relatively,  their  superiors  in  the  relations  of  sister, 
daughter,  mother,  friend  ! — and  fuller  of  tact,  of 
common  sense,  of  sober  judgment,  good  taste, 
domestic  economy,  colloquial  talent,  purity  of 
diction,  and  of  worldly  policy,  than  their  hus- 
bands, brothers,  and  male  friends  are  apt  to  be. 
Whence,  then,  arises  this  absence  of  comparative 
merit  in  our  men? — mainly,  I  think,  from  the 
demoralizing  tendencies  and  influences  of  our  ultra- 
democracy, — the  women  being,  very  often,  at  the 
opposite  point  of  the  political  firmament  from  that 
of  their  lords — also,  from  the  trafficking  spirit  so 
universal  among  us — from  the  necessary  toils  of 
the  men,  who  know  and  feel  the  evils  of  a  re- 
stricted purse,  and  the  consequent  importance  of 
money-making.  Those  who  are  quite  at  ease  in 
their  pecuniary  condition,  and  when  they  happen 
to  be  free  of  petty  ambition,  and  of  the  political 
mania  which  maddens  others,  become  sufficiendy 
aristocratic  to  feel  the  dignity  of  human  character; 
and  are  soon  transferred  into  sensible,  refined, 
graceful,  and  virtuous  beings ;  and  withal,  are  far 
more  amiable.  I  have  often  thought  I  could 
almost  gauge  a  man's  purse  by  the  scale  of  his 
democracy ;  which  often  becomes  flaming,  and 
reaches  even  the  boiling  point,  when  he  is  poor, 
and  yet  sinks  to  zero,  as  soon  as  fortune  smiles 
upon  him! — and  so  it  is  with  all  the  intermediate 
degrees.  Not  that  a  rich  man  loves  his  species 
less — but  that  he  deals  less  in  fulsome  flattery, 
talks  less  of  the  'rights  of  man,'  of  the  'sovereignty 
of  the  people ;'  and,  in  fine,  of  all  those  topics 


AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 


^1 


which  widen  the  too  natural  breach  that  severs 
the  various  classes  of  society.  Not  so  with  womenj; 
they  indulge  in  no  such  crude  notions  of  ultra- 
politics;  but  are  charitable  to  the  poor,  reverence 
virtue  in  whom  ever  found,  regard  all  men  by  the 
standard  of  moral  and  of  intellectual  worth,  and  de- 
sire to  see  every  son  and  daughter  of  Adam  hold 
that  position  alone  in  society,  to  which  their  merits 
entitle  them. 

And  though  by  our  demi-barbarous  law,  the 
existence  of  a  woman  be  merged  in  that  of  her 
husband,  and  she  be  sub  potestate  viri  as  to  more 
things  than  her  own  and  his  property,  she  still 
preserves  her  native  dignity,  counsels  her  husband 
with  the  gentleness  of  an  angel,  looks  into  the 
future  for  him — and,  if  adverse  fortunes  overtake 
him,  she  is  the  first  to  suggest  the  means  of  either 
bettering  their  condition,  or  of  maintaining  that 
equanimity  so  essential  to   further   action. 

The  Common  Law  of  England,  which  is  gene- 
rally ours  in  all  that  appertains  to  woman,  is  far 
from  being  a  code  of  gallantry— no  love-sick  knights 
devoted  to  'ladies  fair,'  ever  penned  a  line  of  it;  all 
is  a  chronicle  of  invidious  distinctions,  of  oppressive 
encroachments  on  the  rights  of  woman !  Her 
personal  estate  vests  in  her  lord,  by  the  very  act  of 
marriage — her  lands  and  tenements  are  for  his  use  ; 
and,  if  a  child  be  born,  though  death  remove  it  the 
instant  after,  {provided  it  be  heard  to  cry  infra 
quatuor  muris  I)  the  whole  of  her  real  estate  vests 
in  the  husband  during  his  life,  if  he  survive  his 
wife:  and,  even  if  there  be  trust  estate  settled 
21* 


242  AN   OLLA-PODRIDA. 

upon  the  wife,  and  vested  in  trustees  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  protecting  it  against  the  husband, 
and  even  against  her  own  acts,  and  with  the  hope 
and  expectation  that  his  sohcitations,  and  his 
powers,  will  prove  of  no  avail  in  converting  it  to 
his  uses, — yet,  still  in  such  a  case,  our  more  than 
barbarous  law  (in  this  respect)  has  decreed,  that  if 
the  husband  and  wife  unite  in  a  deed  to  transfer 
such  trust  property  to  pay  the  husband''s  debts,  it  is 
a  valid  conveyance — and  even  though  the  trustees 
had  no  knowledge  of  the  conveyance,  or  even 
when  done  in  disregard  of  their  wishes !  Oh, 
reform  it  utterly — seek  for  wisdom  on  this  subject 
from  the  counsels  of  the  Roman  Civil  Law ;  and, 
as  to  the  wife's  estate  at  least,  secure  it  to  her  efec- 
tualli/,  so  that  we  may  hear  no  more  of  the  baron^s 
supremacy,  and  of  the  feme  coverfs  proprietary 
non-entity  !  I  think,  when  knowledge  becomes 
more  generally  dilfused  among  us,  this  blur  upon 
the  scutcheon  of  our  legal  character,  must  soon 
pass  away. 

Now,  the  matter  of  knowledge  reminds 

me  of  its  great  excellence,  especially  where  the 
people  are  all  law-makers,  as  well  as  law-breakers, 
and  of  the  solemn  duty  of  our  government  to  foster 
it,  and  of  parents  to  value  it  beyond  all  other 
means  of  becoming  rich  ! 

Well  doth  Sophocles  say, 

'  The  noblest  employment  of  man  is  to  assist  man,* 

for  the  acquisition,  and  imparting  of  knowledge, 
is  certainly  the  most  honourable  and  pleasurable  of 
our  employments.     In  the  pursuit  of  literature  and 


AN   OLLA-PODRIDA.  243 

of  science,  a  philanthropic  mind  experiences  a  de- 
lightful anticipation  of  tlie  pleasure  which  learning 
will  afford  him,  as  a  means  of  benefiting  mankind. 
A  richly  cultivated  mind,  is  ever  a  liberal  and 
generous  one ;  it  delights  in  the  diffusion  of  know- 
ledge, and  has  the  greatest  satisfaction  in  enno- 
bling and  ex{)anding  the  minds  of  others.  Seneca 
used  to  say  that  he  would  spurn  the  proffered  gift 
of  wisdom,  if  on  condition  not  to  impart  it  to 
others ;  and  Cicero  considered  the  pleasure  of 
instructing  others,  as  one  of  the  principal  induce- 
ments to  the  acquisition  of  knowledge.  It  appears 
to  have  been  evidently  the  intention  that  man 
should  assist  man,  since  by  giving  him  the  faculty 
of  speech,  it  designed  him  for  a  sociable  being; 
and  there  can  be  no  society  between  ignorance  and 
knowledge.  The  various  degrees  of  talent  or  of 
genius,  the  natural  turn  which  one  man  has  for 
one  branch  of  science,  or  of  art,  and  another  for 
quite  a  different  kind,  is  strong  proof  that  nature 
intended  that  each  should  cultivate  his  peculiar 
talent,  and  benefit  society  by  the  results  of  his 
labours.  'Nature  has  been  much  loo  frugal,'  says 
Mrs.  Barbauld,  'to  heap  together  all  manner  of 
shining  qualities  in  one  brilliant  mass'— the  poet, 
therefore,  the  sculptor,  and  the  painter,  should 
respectively  improve  his  taste  and  his  genius;  and 
all  should  willingly  bring  the  fruits  of  their  study 
into  the  general  stock. 

The  ancients,  as  far  as  they  possessed  the 
means,  appear  to  have  been  very  liberal  in  the 
communication  of  their  knowledge  to  the  world. 


*244  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

Paulum  sepultae  distat  inertiae 
Celata  virtus, 

says  Horace — and  his  illustrious  cotemporary,  the 
Mantuan  poet,  places  in  the  Elysian  paradise,  those 
who,  by  the  invention  of  useful  arts,  had  instructed 
and  adorned  life. 

Inventus — qui  vitam  excoluere  per  artes, 
Quisque  sui  memores  alios  fecere  merendo. 

The  same  expansive  views  are  evident  in  the 
writings  of  Addison,  in  those  of  Johnson,  of  Bud- 
gel,  Steel,  Hawkesworth,  Thornton,  Moore;  and 
in  the  whole  list  of  periodical  writers,  whose  object 
was  more  the  diffusion  of  knowledge,  the  meliora- 
tion of  society,  the  suppression  of  vice  and  folly  in 
whatever  garb,  and  however  fashionable,  than  the 
hope  of  fame,  or  of  lucre  :  and  their  influence  on 
the  manners  of  the  times  is  their  strongest  recom- 
mendation. 

Ridicule  is  a  powerful  weapon  in  the  hands  of 
a  virtuous  and  ingenious  writer — it  has  been 
crowned  with  success,  when  the  strongest  argu- 
ments, the  chastest  rhetoric,  the  zealous  effusions 
of  the  sage,  and  of  the  divine  have  wholly  failed. 
Ridicule,  therefore,  has  been  a  constant  instrument 
of  attack  upon  the  follies  and  vices  of  the  day;  it 
must  be  delicately  used,  hovi'ever,  if  it  would  attain 
its  desired  effect;  and  none  should  attempt  to 
wield  it,  but  such  as  have  strong  sense,  as  well 
as  genuine  wit  and  humour. 

In  our  own  country  that  charming  little  work, 
known  by  the  appropriate  name  of  Salmagundi, 
was  among  the  earliest  of  our  satirical  prose  works. 


AN    OLLA-PODRIDA.  245 

To  the  language  of  Addison,  the  elegant  simplicity 
of  Goldsmith,  and  the  pungency  of  Swift,  its  classi- 
cal author  united  a  fertile  and  chaste  imagination, 
and  a  rare  but  subdued  humour  truly  delightful. 
I  love  to  look  back  on  those  primitive  times  of  our 
literature  :  it  is  refreshing  to  remember  how  one 
little  work  of  genuine  ridicule,  of  sound  morals, 
and  of  chaste  style,  turned  all  hearts  and  minds 
inward ;  compelled  them  to  think  on  themselves, 
as  well  as  on  their  neighbours;  thereby  refining 
our  manners,  and  causing  us  to  abjure  many  pre- 
scriptive follies.  The  silly  things  of  high  life — 
the  coarseness  of  social  intercourse, — the  idle  pre- 
tensions of  parvenus — the  'whimwams,'  and  idio- 
syncrasies of  crusty  bachelors,  and  of  splenetic  old 
maids — the  ignorance  and  mendacity  of  foreign 
post-road  travellers — the  absurdities  and  ineffi- 
ciency of  a  windy,  wordy  logocracy,  are  dealt  with 
in  a  manner,  so  delightfully  novel  to  us  at  that 
time,  and  with  a  pen  so  evidently  of  masters,  as 
produced  the  happiest  effect — whilst  the  flattering 
reception  of  a  first  work,  secured  to  their  country 
a  writer  (I  may  say  writers)  whose  more  matured 
productions  have  resulted  in  little  else  than  a 
continued  series  of  well  merited  laurels,  growing 
brighter  and  brighter;  and  not  alone  on  the  brow 
of  their  gifted  authors,  but  on  the  language,  litera- 
ture, and  even  science  of  our  country. 

Another  periodical,  somewhat  prior  in  time,  and 
of  a  different  and  far  more  miscellaneous  nature, 
was  the  Port  Folio,  a  valuable  repository  of 
polite  and  elegant  original  literature.     I  love,  also, 


^6  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

to  dwell  on  Dennie's  time.  No  one  was  more 
successful  in  the  happy  combination  of  the  useful 
and  amusing  than  this  elegant  scholar,  pure  writer, 
and  kind  sustainer  of  nascent  talent — and  of  him 
it  may  emphatically  be  said, 

Omne  tulit  punctum  qui  miscuit  utile  dulci. 

From  the  establishment  of  the  Port  Folio  we 
may  commence  the  osra  of  American  taste  for 
literature ;  it  elicited  latent  talents,  encouraged 
laudable  emulation,  diffused  a  more  correct  know- 
ledge of  our  language,  and  of  good  writing,  and 
inculcated  a  wider  taste  for  the  classics,  for  the 
fine  arts,  and  for  the  elegant  sciences — in  all  of 
which  Joseph  Dennie's  disinterested  and  unwea- 
ried zeal,  is  worthy  of  all  commendation. 

The  periodicals  of  Boston,  of  New  York,  and 
of  Baltimore  came  on  in  quick  succession — the 
first  more  learned,  thorough,  and  well  written,  as 
there  were  generally  more  able  scholars  among 
the  New  Englanders,  and  more  extensive  facilities 
of  every  kind;  and  their  labours  of  the  pen,  more- 
over, were  addressed  to  a  more  enlightened,  and 
reading  community.  And,  what  a  galaxy  of  fine 
writers  arose  upon  the  foundations  raised  by  these 
fathers  of  our  literature!  What  a  list  of  brilliant 
stars  might  be  given,  maugre  that  some  in  foreign 
lands,  have  said  'who  reads  an  American  book?' — 
but  such  persons  ask  not  that  question  now — 
and  if  they  do,  they  contradict  it  by  their  prac- 
tice— witness  Cooper,  Bird,  Hall,  Sedgwick,  Web- 
ster, Walsh,  Sparks,  Ware,  Flint,  Paulding,  Griffith, 
Stevens,  Willis,  Kennedy,  Fay,  Abbot,  Slidel,  the 


AN   OLLA-PODRIDA.  247 

Irvings  junior — and  that  prince  of  historians,  Pres- 
coTT,  and  the  great  mathematician  and  astronomer, 
Bovvditch — and  some  hundreds  more ;  and  hke- 
wise  without  naming  our  small,  but  rich  list  of 
genuine  poets  I 

It  may  be  truly  affirmed,  then,  that  within  the 
short  span  of  about  thirty  years,  our  nation  im- 
proved with  marvellous  rapidity,  in  sound  and 
beautiful  literature,  and  also  in  many  arts  and 
sciences ;  and  that,  from  a  mere  speck  in  the 
horizon,  at  the  commencement  of  the  present 
century,  (for  authorship  was  then  scarcely  known 
among  us,)  we  now  find  theology,  medicine,  law, 
mathematics,  the  mechanic  arts,  languages,  and 
general  literature,  signally  advanced ;  and  books 
on  each  have  been  written,  which  command  the 
warm  praises  of  the  ripest  scholars  of  the  old 
world — and  indeed,  all  departments  of  useful 
knowledge  have  flourished,  save  politics  alone ; 
for  that  sublime  subject  hath,  past  all  doubt, 
been  theoretically,  as  well  as  practically,  on  the 
retrograde,  ever  since  we  forsook  the  lustrous 
paths   of   the   fathers   of  our    Constitution. 

A  large  portion  of  our  young  men  are  dedicated 
to  the  profession  of  law,  or  of  medicine.  The 
former  especially  requires  of  them  the  study  of  a 
varied  knowledge — a  thorough  command  of  lan- 
guage, a  good  style  in  speaking,  and  in  composi- 
tion— all  of  whicli,  as  it  seems  to  me,  scarce  receive 
the  attention  from  them,  which  the  highest  rank  in 
their  profession  demands.  If  the  improvement  of 
others  does  not  offer  them  a  sufficient  inducement 


248  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

to  write,  the  great  advantage  it  would  be  to  them- 
selves, after  they  come  to  the  bar,  should  have  its 
influence.  This  is  to  be  sure,  a  selfish  motive, 
and  should  ever  be  a  secondary  one — for  I  have 
known  many  clients  to  suffer,  from  their  patrons' 
little  acquaintance  with  the  art  of  composition,  and 
even  from  their  want  of  general  knowledge,  how- 
ever learned  they  may  have  been  in  Coke  and  in 
Bacon. 

But  some,  again,  are  of  an  opposite  class,  and 
justify  their  much  acquaintance  with  Sir  Walter, 
with  Mr.  Bulwer,  with  Mr.  Boz  and  with  Mr. 
Slick,  and  their  small  respect  for  my  Lord  Coke's 
Institutes,  by  alleging  that  much  study  of  such 
dry  law,  cramps  the  genius,  destroys  taste,  and 
vitiates  the  style!  whilst  others,  too  fond  of  the 
musty  folios  and  quartos, 

'Tread  on  flowers  of  taste, 
Yet  stoop  to  pick  the  pebbles  from  the  waste. 
Profound  in  trifles,  they  can  tell  how  short 
Were  iEsop's  legs,  how  large  was  Tally's  wart !' 

Such  students  will  spend  weeks  in  reading  Booth 
on  Real  Actions,  whilst  Sehvyn's  Nisi  Prius  lies 
neglected  on  the  shelf.  Pliny's  Natural  History, 
or  Derham's  Pliysicotheology  are  affectedly  conned 
over,  whilst  Smellie  and  Buffon,  or  even  the  admi- 
rable similar  works  of  the  present  day,  are  greatly 
slighted  !  With  such  beings,  the  old-fashioned  phi- 
losophy of  Descartes,  the  black-letter  quartos  of  the 
alchemists,  the  astrologers,  and  necromancers,  the 
complexities  of  syllogisms,  the  metaphysics  of  per- 
sonal identity,  and  the  whole  lumber  of  justly-for- 


AN    OLLA-PODRIDA.  249 

gotten  learning,  are  preferred  to  the  masterly  treatises 
issued  by  the  Societies  for  the  diffusion  of  useful 
knowledge,  and  to  the  graceful  and  solid  literature 
that  does  exist,  if  pains  be  taken  to  select  it,  from 
amidst  the  vast  issues  of  the  modern  press.  To 
such  deluded  persons,  of  both  classes,  I  would 
recommend  as  a  model,  the  life  of  Sir  William 
Jones,  whose  vast  mind  grasped  the  system  of 
general  jurisprudence,  and  united  with  it  the 
whole  circle  of  science,  and  of  polite  literature, 
as  also  many  languages,  and  several  elegant  ac- 
complishments. I  would  also  refer  him  to  our 
own  countrymen,  Kent  and  Story,  whose  varied 
learning  has  so  largely  embellished  their  deep 
researches  in  the  law ;  and  who  never  found  their 
genius  cramped  by  the  common  law;  and  never 
permitted  an  overweening  fondness  for  black  letter 
lore,  to  dim  their  vision  of  the  great  beauties  that 
environ  the  paths  of  lighter  authors. 

The  observation  of  Sir  William  Jones,  that 
'Law  is  a  jealous  science,  and  admits  of  no  asso- 
ciation with  the  muses,'  has  been  advanced  by 
some  as  a  justification  of  their  almost  total  neglect 
of  belle-lettre  reading.  Any  one  acquainted  with 
the  character  of  that  great  man,  must  readily 
perceive  that  he  never  intended  that  we  should 
neglect  such  information,  whilst  engaged  in  the 
study  and  practice  of  law — but  merely  that  the 
fascinations  of  the  literas  humaniores,  and  more 
especially  poetry,  are  so  great,  as  often  to  create 
a  disrelish  for  drier  and  more  abstruse  pages  of 
the  law,  and  that,  whatever  our  vocation  in  life 
22 


250  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

may  be,  our  primary  duty  is  to  cultivate  that  with 
a  more  special  devotion.  But  polite  literature,  a 
felicitous  elocution,  chaste  language,  varied  know- 
ledge, pure  writing,  are  all  essential  to  the  lawyer; 
and  none  can  ever  be  so  busy,  but  that  he  will 
have  many  vacancies  of  time,  which  may  be  most 
profitably  employed  in  the  cultivation  of  these 
auxiliaries  to  his  science. 

Neque  semper  arcum  tendit  Apollo, 

is  as  true  in  the  law,  as  in  any  other  vocation 
whatever.  Such  recreations  from  the  toils  of  se- 
vere study  and  practice,  are  commended  to  us, 
as  well  by  experience  as  common  sense — they 
cheer  him  in  his  more  difficult  pursuits,  and  afford 
a  sweet  relaxation,  whilst  they  add  largely  to  his 
means  of  usefulness.  General  literature,  and  cou)- 
position,  as  also  translating,  are  often  more  useful 
in  restoring  the  tone  of  the  mind,  than  a  total 
abstraction  from  study — for  the  mind,  like  a  che- 
mical menstruum,  may  be  saturated  with  one 
species  of  knowledge,  and  yet  receive  another 
with  great  avidity.  Sir  William,  when  he  applied 
himself  to  the  study  of  law,  made  that  his  chief 
employment,  but  was  far  from  neglecting  the 
pleasures  and  advantages  of  more  polite  reading. 
Such  excuses,  therefore,  as  are  often  given  by 
young  men,  for  not  more  frequently  composing, 
are  futile  and  totally  unfounded;  and  the  alleged 
wmit  of  time  would  ill  become,  as  Shenstone  says, 
'even  a  cobler,  with  ten  or  a  dozen  children  de- 
pending upon  a  patching-end.' 


AN    OLLA-PODRIDA.  251 

The  preceding  discussions  about  the  beauties 
of  nature — the  superiority  of  our  fair  country- 
women over  our  own  'lords  of  the  creation' — our 
crude  law  respecting  their  marital  rights — the 
value  of  knowledge,  and  the  duty  to  impart  it 
freely — our  early  and  improving  literature — and 
the  false  views  of  two  classes  of  our  young  men, 
in  regard  to  their  studies,  all  grew  out  of  my 
long  walk  over  the  Appenines,  and  my  delight  on 
meeting  at  Antibes  with  one  of  my  valued  female 
friends 

I  found  myself  in  a  few  days  thereafter 

in  Rome.  I  had  often  heard  of  the  lamentable 
ignorance  of  the  Italians,  and  even  of  the  generali- 
ty of  their  nobles — and  that  some  even  of  them, 
could  neither  read  nor  write,  and  yet  that  they 
were  very  happy  !  I  could  scarce  credit  this  ;  but 
my  incredulity  vanished,  upon  witnessing  in  the 
church  of  Santa  Maria  del  Popolo,  an  attempt  of 
a  priest  during  nearly  an  hour,  to  instruct  some 
fourteen  little  urchins  in  their  prayers!  The  scene 
wholly  baffles  description ;  and  did  so  outrage  all 
custom  and  nature,  as  before  understood  by  me, 
that  even  memory  and  imagination  are  now  at 
fault  fully  to  realize  its  details!  I  do  remember, 
however,  that  the  boys  were  ?nasters,  the  master  a 
slave,  and  a  very  ass !  They  repeatedly  threw 
their  hats  into  his  face,  laughed  and  howled  terrifi- 
cally, cast  summersets  over  the  benches,  pinned 
papers  to  his  robe,  obtained  possession  of  his  cap, 
placed  it  on  their  own  heads,  and  then  on  a  small 
pole,  furtively  snatched  from  him  his  slender  emblem 


252  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

of  authority  and  of  punishment,  caused  him  to  rage 
and  to  laugh  alternately,  and  then  to  scold,  and 
anon  to  entreat !  At  length  the  time  of  their  dis- 
missal came,  they  rushed  out  of  the  church  with 
shouts  and  screams,  and  their  merry  laughter 
might  be  heard  deep  down  the  Corso,  and  the  Via 
di  Repetti!  On  inquiring  of  the  good-natured 
priest  (who  seemed  quite  exhausted  with  his  la- 
bours of  scolding,  laughing,  and  whipping  with 
ail  instrument  that  could  not  hurt,  and  which  he 
applied  as  softly  as  if  afraid  to  inflict  the  least  pain) 
why  he  did  not  soundly  cudgel  the  young  rebels, 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  mildly  but  laconi- 
cally replied,  that  if  he  did  so,  they  would  not 
attend  at  all — that  it  was  with  difficulty  they  could 
be  prevailed  upon  to  come  at  all — that  many  of 
them  were  the  sons  of  the  first  people,  and  others 
were  poor  boys  who  had  no  other  way  of  learning 
their  prayers  !  Here,  then,  the  boys  were  merry 
little  grigs,  with  all  their  des}>erate  ignorance,  and 
total  want  of  discipline  and  of  moral  culture — the 
priest  seemed  to  be  equally  so — and  those  youths, 
when  they  become  men,  and  take  possession  of 
their  huge,  and  often  comfortless,  but  ever  tasteful 
palaces,  will  be  found  as  light-hearted  as  the  gor- 
geous butterflies  that  revel  in  their  clear  blue  sky, 
and  genial  atmosphere  ! 

Does  knowledge,  then,  increase  our  hap- 
piness ?  Some  are  disposed  seriously  to  question 
this,  and  would  be  the  more  disposed  so  to  do, 
upon  a  superficial  view  of  things  in  Italy.  Happi- 
ness is  a  relative  term,  and  signifies  some  satisfac- 


AN   OLLA-PODRIDA.  253 

tion  of  the  soul,  induced  by  some  good,  or  a  well- 
founded  hope  of  acquiring  the  same.    If  we  are  un- 
conscious of  the  value  of  what  we  possess,  or  of  the 
vast  superiority  of  the  possessions  of  others,  we 
may  be  neither  happy,  nor  miserable.      But  still, 
the  multiplied  sources  of  happiness  which  a  melio- 
rated state  furnishes,  above  that  of  a  state  of  na- 
ture, are  so  evident,  that  nothing  but  a  half  crazed 
brain  could  conceive  a  doubt  of  the  real  advan- 
tages arising  from  the  cultivation  of  those  faculties, 
which  characterize  man  as  the  lord  of  the  creation. 
The  happiness  enjoyed    by  an  Indian  is   merely 
negative,  whilst  that  of  the  civilized  man  arises,  not 
from  the   mere   absence   of  pain,  but  consists  of 
something  more  positive,  viz:  the  pleasures  of  con- 
templation, reflection  and  study,  whilst  every  doubt 
is  answered  and  every  wish  gratified.     A  portion 
of  natural   but  destructive  independence  is  given 
up  by  entering  into  society,  but  political  conserva- 
tion, and  innumerable  other  advantages  result  from 
the  union. 

Whilst  it  is  admitted  that  the  savage  is  happy  in 
some  sense,  the  superior  degree  of  felicity  enjoyed 
by  man  in  society,  is  by  no  means  impeached ;  the 
Indian,  though  an  alien  to  every  comfort  and  lux- 
ury of  civilized  life,  is  no  doubt  contented.  He 
possesses  nearly  all  that  he  aspires  to,  but  his  aspi- 
rations being  very  limited,  (as  his  knowledge  is 
contracted)  his  happiness  is  rather  the  absence  of 
pain,  than  that  internal  satisfaction  which  arises 
from  the  possession  of  good.  The  content  expe- 
rienced by  man  in  the  savage  state,  is  a  wise  and 
22* 


•254  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

kind  provision  of  nature :  but  that  this  is  the 
natural  state  of  man,  and  that  the  approximation 
to  civilization  is  a  recession  from  that  sphere  in 
which  nature  intended  us  always  to  act,  is  one  of 
those  wild  chimeras  which  levels  every  barrier  that 
distinguishes  man  from  the  brute.  Nature  gave  us 
minds  susceptible  of  improvement.  She  endowed 
us  with  faculties  which,  if  cultivated,  secure  feli- 
city. And,  as  the  pursuit  of  happiness  is  one  of 
the  final  causes  of  our  creation,  it  is  impious  to 
suppose  that  the  exercise  of  those  faculties  was 
designed  to  counteract  our  endeavours  after  hap- 
piness. 

If  the  state  of  ignorance  is  the  natural  state  of 
man,  our  modern  philosophers  must  at  least  admit, 
that  it  never  had  an  existence ;  and  a  natural  state 
which  never  existed,  is  certainly  preposterous  ;  for 
neither  history,  tradition  nor  analogy,  will  let  us 
suppose  that  there  ever  was  a  period  in  which  man 
existed  without  the  smallest  footstep  of  art — for,  if 
the  gun  be  minatural,  the  bow  and  arrow  is  also 
so.  If  the  luxuries  and  elegancies  of  meliorated 
and  polished  life  be  unnatural,  so  are  the  conve- 
niences of  savage  life  when  they  differ  in  the 
smallest  degree  from  those  enjoyed  by  the  brute. 
Our  love  of  learimig,  as  affording  us  inexhaustible 
sources  of  happiness,  is  much  increased,  when  we 
contrast  the  wonderful  art  of  cultivated  man,  and 
the  transcendancy  of  civilized  and  polislied  life, 
with  the  ignoble  and  contracted  views  of  untutored 
nature.  Whether  or  not  ignorance  be  the  natural 
state  of  man,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  but  that  the 


AN    OLLA-PODRIDA.  255 

invention  and  improvement  of  the  arts  and  sci- 
ences, are  the  only  means  of  mehorating  the  aspe- 
rities and  evils  to  which  man  is  heir ;  and  if  this 
is  established,  it  is  madness  to  call  the  infelicitous 
the  natural  state. 

Let  us  view  the  savage  of  the  wilderness.  We 
behold  him  solitary — exposed  to  every  inclemency 
of  the  seasons,  diseased,  and  without  the  tender 
attentions  of  friends  and  relatives  ;  or,  let  us  con- 
template him  surrounded  with  the  spontaneous 
products  and  luxuries  of  the  earth.  They  satisfy 
hunger,  but  still  are  tasteless  and  insipid,  for  the 
want  of  sufficient  culinary  means — they  have  no 
sauces,  no  stimulating  condiments,  are  often  even 
without  salt;  but  as  nature  yields  them,  so  are 
they  to  be  eaten.  His  roof  is  the  canopy  of  hea- 
ven, every  shower  that  descends,  every  wind  that 
blows,  every  snow  that  falls,  has  no  regard  for 
him — but  like  the  brute,  he  has  to  seek  an  occa- 
sional asylum  from  the  raging  tempest,  or  from  the 
ravenous  assaults  of  the  prowling  hyena  or  hungry 
bear,  in  some  gloomy  cavity  of  the  earth  or  rocks ; 
and  thus  he  leads  a  sad  dissocial  life. 

How  different  is  the  state  of  cultivated  man  ! 
surrounded  by  his  friends  and  relatives,  he  enjoys 
in  their  society  the  pleasures  of  social  and  learned 
converse.  Every  sensibility,  every  passion  or  affec- 
tion of  his  mind  is  refined.  The  luxuries  of  life 
now  minister  largely  to  his  comfort  and  pleasure  ; 
the  rocks  are  hewn  into  splendid  palaces,  and  the 
lofty  trees  into  ornamental  and  useful  habitations. 
The  tempest  may  howl,  or  the  sun  dart  his  rays 


256  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

with  all  his  fury,  he  is  secured  from  both ;  all 
nature  is  subservient  to  him,  and  all  her  beauties 
become  visible,  and  the  sources  of  much  positive 
happiness  :  in  fact,  man  in  his  savage  state  is  the 
object  of  pity  ;  but  when  the  powers  of  his  mind 
are  exerted — when  his  faculties,  which  before  were 
merely  i7i potentia,  are  brought  into  action  and  use- 
fulness, he  then  becomes  the  noblest  work  of  God's 
creation  ;  it  is  then,  and  then  07di/,  we  can  say 
with  Shakspeare — 'What  a  piece  of  work  is  man  ! 
how  noble  in  reason  !  how  infinite  in  faculties  !  in 
form,  and  moving,  how  express  and  admirable  !  in 
action,  how  like  an  angel !  in  apprehension,  how 
like  a  God  !  the  beauty  of  the  world  !  the  paragon 
of  animals  !' — for  it  is  in  society  alone  that  these 
faculties  are  evinced,  and  these  godlike  qualities 
shewn — and  in  society  alone  is  happiness  to  be 
found. 

So  again,  the  nninstructed  eye  is  entirely  insen- 
sible to  numerous  latent  beauties,  which  the  mirror 
of  philosophy  and  learning  reflects  in  glowing  co- 
lours on  the  well  informed  and  expanded  mind — 
on  it  the  beauties  of  nature  and  art,  the  harmony  of 
sounds,  the  charms  of  poetry,  and  the  richness  of 
colouring,  the  grace  and  masterly  designs  of  the 
painter,  have  tlieir  due  elfuct,  and  are  so  many 
sources  of  intellectual  beatitude. 

In  forming  a  correct  estimate  of  the  degree  of 
positive  happiness  experienced  by  man  in  the 
savage  state,  we  have  only  to  consider  men  in 
civil  society  as  possessing  the  various  degrees  of 
knowledge,  from  a  simple  peasant  to  the  profound 


AN    OLLA-PODRIDA,  257 

philosopher.  A  man  unacquainted  with  the  beau- 
ties of  composition,  will  read  the  poems  of  Black- 
more,  who  'writ  to  the  rumbling  of  his  coach's 
wheels,'  with  much  the  same  feelings  as  the  sweet- 
est lines  of  Pope ;  and  will  experience  little  more 
emotion  from  the  imagination  of  Shakspeare,  the 
delicacy  of  Addison,  the  sublimMy  of  Milton,  or 
the  purity  of  Swift,  than  from  the  senseless  jargon 
of  newspaper  scribblers,  or  the  wretched  versifica- 
tion of  some  modern  poetasters. 

To  one  unacquainted  with  the  principles  of 
music,  a  concert  soon  grows  tiresome;  or,  if  enter- 
tained, he  is  a  stranget  to  that  exquisite  satisfac- 
tion experienced  by  those  who  are  well  acquainted 
with  the  theory  of  sounds. 

So  also,  he  who  is  unaccustomed  to  the  contem- 
plation of  the  beauties  of  nature,  is  an  alien  to  the 
great  satisfaction  which  the  mind  receives  from  the 
picturesque  beauties  of  landscape;  but  those 

'Whom  Nature's  works  can  charm,  with  God  himself 
Hold  converse  ;  grow  familiar  day  by  day 
With  his  conceptions,  act  upon  his  plan 
And  form  to  his,  the  relish  of  their  souls.' 

The  vegetable  world  displays  a  new  creation  to 
the  botanist;  the  formal  walks  of  a  garden,  where 
nature  appears  to  have  been  tortured  into  stiffness, 
are  not  his  only  resorts,  but 

'Led  o'er  vales  and  mountains,  to  explore 

What  healing  virtue  swells  the  tender  veins 
Of  herbs  and  flowers  ;  or  what  the  beams  of  morn 
Draw  forth,  distilling  from  the  clifted  rind 
In  balmy  tears' 

he  becomes  acquainted  with  a  thousand  beauties, 


258  AN    OLLA-rODRIDA. 

a  thousand  harmonies  which  '  'scape  the  vulgar 
unobserving  eye.' 

Let  us  suppose  a  person  surrounded  by  various 
specimens  of  ancient  and  modern  painting,  yet 
totally  unacquainted  with  those  points  which  con- 
stitute the  beauties  of  this  divine  art.  What  would 
claim  his  first  attention  ?  The  richness  of  colour- 
ing no  doubt,  though  the  piece  might  be  exces- 
sively defective  in  grace  and  design.  So  the 
strongest  masses  of  light,  the  most  perspicuous 
objects,  and  the  strongest  shades,  however  un- 
happy in  disposition,  would  perhaps  yield  him  as 
much  pleasure  as  the  finest  paintings  of  the  most 
celebrated  artists.  But  improve  his  mind,  ground 
him  well  in  the  rules  of  the  art,  and  the  various 
sources  of  beauty,  and  then  observe  his  taste,  his 
judgment,  his  sensibility — he  is  alive  to  every 
beauty  of  proportion,  invention,  colouring,  etc. — 
he  at  once  distinguishes  the  characteristics  of  the 
schools,  he  perceives  the  wonderful  design  of 
Angelo,  the  character  and  masterly  disposition 
which  distinguishes  Raphael,  the  grace  and  har- 
onony  of  Corregio,  and  the  chaste  but  inimitable 
richness  of  colouring  which  characterizes  Titian. 

All  these  are  valuable  sources  of  pleasure  which 
are  only  opened  to  us,  by  the  cultivation  of  those 
faculties  with  which  nature  hath  endowed  us. 

Architecture  is  another  of  the  polite  arts  which 
affords  both  comfort  and  pleasure.  A  well  pro- 
portioned house,  a  richly  decorated  church,  or  a 
magnificent  palace,  pleases  the  clown  as  well  as 
the  architect.     He  perceives  the  vast  superiority  of 


AN    OLLA-PODRIDA.  259 

these  edifices  in  point  of  utility  and  grandeur  to 
his  own  cottage,  but  his  sensation  is  not  exquisite, 
it  is  rather  astonishment  than  a  genuine  sensibihty 
to  the  beauties  of  proportion  and  design.  It  may 
be  said,  tiiat  he  who  is  ignorant  of  the  rules  of  art, 
will  be  pleased  with  every  thing,  whereas  he  who 
knows  the  sources  of  beauty,  will  be  so  exquisitely 
sensible  to  every  defect,  as  to  experience  more  pain 
than  pleasure :  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  the 
absence  of  variety  where  it  ought  to  be  found,  the 
want  of  uniformity  or  symmetry,  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  unfitness  of  the  object  for  its 
end,  produce  unpleasant  sensations  in  a  cultivated 
mind  ;  but  this  seldom  occurs  to  so  great  a  degree 
as  to  be  really  offensive,  and  at  all  events  will  not 
justify  ignorance  of  the  fine  arts  considered  merely 
as  sources  of  pleasure.  In  fact  we  may  justly  look 
for  happiness,  and  for  the  sentiments  of  virtue  and 
benevolence  in  every  state,  in  proportion  to  the 
progress  of  science,  and  the  encouragement  of  the 
fine  arts. 

From   the  church  of  Santa  Majia  del 

Popolo,  which  gave  rise  to  this  inquiry  as  to  the 
sources  of  happiness,  I  went  to  the  Collegia  di 
Propaganda  Fide — and  what  a  diff'erent  scene 
was  there,  my  countrymen!  After  viewing  it  for 
some  time,  I  found  myself  quite  in  a  dilemma,  and 
was  cast  all  aback,  as  to  my  musings  about  the 
rude  boys,  and  the  incompetent  teacher,  in  the 
church  I  had  just  left;  for,  in  the  Propaganda,  I 
found  students  from  nearly  every  region  of  the 
world,  gratuitously,  and  as  it  is  said,  thoroughly 


260  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

educated !  There  I  found  blacks  from  Central 
Africa,  Indians  from  the  wilds  of  America,  Greeks 
and  Persians,  Arabians  and  Egyptians,  Turks  and 
Jews,  Hollanders  and  Highlanders,  Armenians  and 
Albanians,  English  and  French,  Kentuckians  and 
Tennesseans,  Syrians  and  Bulgarians,  Germans 
and  lUyrians;  and  I  know  not  how  many  more, 
all  instructed  m  their  oiofi  languages!  In  addition 
to  these  are  taught  Latin,  Hebrew,  Samaritan, 
Sanscrit,  ancient  Greek,  Italian,  Coptic,  ancient 
Armenian,  Mandaican,  Rezian,  the  language  of 
the  Otiawas,  and  various  others — in  all  of  which 
tongues  and  languages,  were  pronounced  and  re- 
cited at  their  public  commencement,  orations, 
poems,  <fcc. !  The  library  is  said  to  contain  only 
about  twenty  thousand  volumes ;  and  the  museum 
of  oriental  curiosities  is  somewhat  extensive,  and 
no  doubt  extremely  rare  and  valuable  for  their 
purposes.  Let  any  one,  also,  listen  for  an  hour 
to  the  learned  and  amiable  Mezzofanti,  who  is 
said  to  converse  familiarly  in  no  less  than  seventy 
languages,  tongues,  and  dialects  ! — let  him  also 
visit  the  public  libraries  ;  the  Vatican,  the  Capito- 
line,  Clementine,  Chiarimonte,  Kercheriano,  and 
the  other  museums;  as  likewise  the  numerous 
Studios,  Colleges,  and  the  other  places  of  instruc- 
tion, and  then  account,  in  the  best  way  he  may, 
for  the  fact,  if  it  exists,  of  Italian  illiterateness ! 
The  day  was  nearly  spent  at  the  Pro- 
paganda; but  the  hour  for  my  return  to  my 
lodgings,  had  not  yet  arrived;  so  I  resolved  on 
continuing  my  delightful  toils  for  that  day,  by  a 


AN    OLLA-PODRIDA.  261 

visit  to  the  Palazzo  Rospigliosi.  I  found  it  built 
on  the  ruins  of  Constantino's  baths,  by  the  cardinal 
Scipio  Borghese,  from  whom  it  passed  to  the 
cardinal  Bentivoglio,  then  to  the  Mazzarine  family; 
and  lastly,  to  the  noble  house  of  Rospigliosi. 

The  Casino  of  the  garden  contains  on  the  ceiling 
of  its  principal  saloon,  the  much  celebrated  Aurora, 
by  Guido  Reni,  perhaps  the  finest  fresco  in  the 
world.  In  this  inimitable  composition,  the  great 
master  has  displayed  the  whole  strength  of  his 
invention — the  purest  taste — the  richest  and  most 
appropriate  colouring — and  the  utmost  skill  and 
accuracy  of  outline.  It  is  a  picture,  of  all  others, 
that  charms  the  inexperienced  amateur,  by  match- 
less beauties  of  form  and  of  colouring,  whilst  it 
equally  delights  the  connoisseur  and  most  critical 
observer,  by  its  fruitful  fancy,  and  the  perfection 
of  its  artistical  execution.  It  represents  Aurora 
preceding  the  car  of  day,  gradually  unveiling 
herself,  and  strewing  the  earth  with  flowers.  In 
the  front  of  this  lovely  figure,  and  sailing  in  thin 
air,  is  Phosphorus,  a  personification  of  the  dawn, 
under  the  form  of  a  beautiful  infant,  with  a  flam- 
beau, and  whose  star  proclaims  the  coming  day, 
but  whose  rays  are  too  weak  to  dissipate  the 
shades  of  night,  which  yet  surround  the  dawn. 
In  his  resplendent  car,  sits  Apollo,  the  god  of  day, 
gracefully  holding  the  reins,  and  guiding  his  four 
fiery  coursers,  which  are  bounding  through  the 
heavens,  and  dissipating  the  mists  that  linger  yet 
about  the  fair  goddess  of  the  morn,  and  her  youth- 
ful messenger.  Attendant  upon  the  god,  are  seven 
23 


262  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

lovely  and  graceful  nymphs,  supposed  to  represent 
the  Hours.  They  are  variously  attired,  full  of 
immortal  freshness,  and  are  radiant  with  delight 
at  the  approach  of  day!  But  the  beauty  of  this 
enchanting  picture,  rests  not  alone  in  the  exquisite 
forms  I  have  mentioned;  but  is  greatly  heighten- 
ed by  the  perfect  harmony  between  surrounding 
nature,  and  the  action  of  the  piece.  The  ground 
of  the  picture  beautifully  unites  in  disclosing  the 
whole  design.  The  clouds  of  night  in  distant 
places,  seem  but  gradually  dissolving;  those  nearer 
to  the  goddess,  are  rolling  away  ;  a  golden  transpa- 
rency encompasses  Apollo;  and  on  the  mountains, 
beneath  Aurora,  the  streaks  of  morning  light  are 
becoming  more  and  more  visible !  The  scene  is 
executed  in  figures  as  large  as  life ;  and  is  still  in 
its  original  freshness. 

The  palace  has  many  other  paintings  by  the 
greatest  masters,  as  also  various  sculptures  and 
curiosities  of  great  interest — but  no  one,  on  the 
same  day,  has  much  heart  for  any  other  painting, 
especially  about  the  hour  of  five  o'clock  before  din- 
ner— so,  leaving  his  resplendent  majesty,  Apollo, 
to  pursue  the  rosy-fingered  goddess,  whilst  she  is 
strewing  flowers  in  preparation  for  the  gayety  of 
morn,  I  departed  with  hasty  steps,  and  with  cha- 
racteristic mortality,  well  resolved,  (in  anticipation 
of  the  repose  of  night,)  to  take  a  hearty  dinner 
first . 

And  this,  oh,  courteous  reader,  doth  re- 
mind me  of  the  glorious  'prandium  which  was 
ready  for  our  little  party  of  three  on  that  day  of 


AN    OLLA-PODRIDA.  263 

mental  and  of  body  exhaustion;  and  of  which,  in 
brief  words,  I  must  not  fail  to  say  something,  as 
we  have  so  long  been  dealing  with  the  intellec- 
tuals, that  thou,  as  well  as  myself,  must  by  this 
time,  be  weary  and  truly  wish  that  this  my  literary 
oUa-podrida,  were  suddenly  transformed  into  a  ve- 
ritable Spanish  repast  of  the  same  name  ! 

Know  then  that  the  dinner  of  that  day, 

though  no  better,  or  no  worse,  than  those  of  the 
preceding  days,  was  yet  discussed  by  us  all  with, 
perhaps,  more  than  ordinary  unseyitimentality ;  for 
when  the  mind  hath  been  over-fed,  the  outer  man 
must  soon  have  generous  nouriture.  Considering 
that  we  had  for  some  hours  before  been  commu- 
ning with  gods  and  goddesses,  and  their  seven 
attendant  nymphs,  we  deserved  some  credit  for  not 
insisting  on  a  repast  of  ambrosia  and  of  neclar. 
But  had  even  these  been  present,  we  should  soon 
have  forsaken  them  on  finding  the  four  piping 
hot  courses,  which  in  due  succession  appeared — 
as  follows :  primo,  a  menestra  (vermicelli  soup ;) 
secondo,  a  slufato,  (stewed  beef  and  its  savoury 
appliances;)  ierzo,  cavoli-fiori,  (cauliflower,)  and 
Pollastri  (roast  chickens ;)  quarto,  un  pajo  di 
piccioni,  e  due  tordi  (a  pair  of  pigeons,  and 
two  thrushes ;)  and  lastly,  by  way  of  desert, 
apple-fritters,  with   its   harmonious   sauce,  and  a 

charlotte  russe all,  all,  if  thou  wilt  credit  it 

gentle  reader,  (though  making  three  good  dinners 
for  the  three  hungry  diners)  for  just  the  sum  of 
one  scudo,  and  six  bajocchi,  or  one  hundred  and 


264  AN    OLLA-PODRIDA. 

six  of  our  cents — the  fraction  of  six  being  a 
daily  perquisite  for  the  restaurant's  servant! 

'Head  of  Apicius !'  cried  I,  when  first  I  met 
in  Rome  with  these  sumptuous  dinners,  for  so 
little  of  the  precious  metal,  'how  could  Vitellius, 
and  Heliogabalus,  and  other  heroes  of  gourman- 
derie,  almost  beggar  their  empire  by  merely  a  few 
months'  eating,  as  historians  do  so  veraciously 
maintain?'  But,  I  mean  not  to  answer  this  ques- 
tion, lest  my  olla,  on  this  principle  may  never 
end.  But  when  I  tliink  of  these  Roman  dinners 
of  mine,  I  cannot  help  being  filled  with  wonder 
at  the  anomalous  facts  and  mysteries  of  political 
economy ! — millions  of  American  acres,  of  the 
deepest  and  richest  soil,  are  daily,  each  crying 
out,  ^come  and  buy  me  for  a  dollar  and  a  quarter^ 
and  yet,  in  few  spots  of  our  globe  are  even  the 
necessaries  of  life  so  dear  as  they  generally  are 
in  these  United  States !  An  acre  in  perpetuity, 
full  of  goodly  trees,  of  hill  and  of  dale,  of  fruits 
and  flowers,  and  copious  streams — and,  possibly, 
of  precious  metals  and  minerals  to  boot,  all  re- 
jected as  quite  too  dear  at  government  price ! — 
but  an  ill-cooked  dinner,  with  a  bottle  of  alcoholic 
Madeira,  at  about  the  price  of  fifteen  Roman  din- 
ners, is  the  daily  tax  of  many  travellers  in  our 
interminable  regions ! 

And  now,   bidding   adieu   to   this  011a- 

Podrida,  I  may  possibly  find  in  the  dreams  of  the 
night  which  followed  my  prandium,  (or  rather 
cosna)  some  topic  for  my  next  note. 


DREAMING.  265 

NOTE  XIX. DREAMING. 

'But  what  are  all  your  metaphysics  worth,  if 
they  cannot  resolve  me  the  cause  of  dreaming?' 
said  I,  one  day  to  a  philosophical  gentleman  who 
had  been  just  descanting  with  as  much  learned 
familiarity  upon  the  mind,  as  if  he  possessed  an 
accurate  map  of  its  minute  topography,  and  un- 
derstood every  spring  of  its  varied  and  recondite 
action!  This  was  said  by  me,  moreover,  with  a 
brusquerie  of  manner  that  indicated  my  contempt 
of  all  transcendentalism,  and  especially  for  that 
so  called  learning  which  consists  in  the  use  of 
many  esoteric  words.  The  metaphysical  gentle- 
man spoke  of  the  hidden  things  of  the  soul,  with 
such  a  provoking  air  of  acquaintance,  that  I  natu- 
rally urged  him  to  unfold  to  me  the  mysteries  of 
sleep,  of  reverie,  of  dreams,  and  of  all  such  cog- 
nate topics — but  to  none  of  which  could  he  do 
more  than  deal  in  mystic  terms,  and  in  many 
curious  facts  respecting  them  all ;  and  being  press- 
ed for  some  theory  of  dreaming  based  on  his  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  mind,  and  the  very  wonderful 
facts  he  had  disclosed,  he  cut  the  knot  of  his  difli- 
culty  thus — 'the  action  of  the  mind  during  sleep,' 
said  he,  'is  so  extremely  lawless,  as  to  evade  the 
wonted  scrutiny  of  mental  philosophers — but,  when 
the  nature  of  sleep  itself  shall  be  more  fully  re- 
vealed to  us,  the  phenomena  of  dreannng  will  then 
become  sufficiently  plain.'  'This,  however,  is  an 
humble  concession,'  rejoined  I,  'and  especially 
from  one  who  has  been  dealing  with  mind,  as  with 
23* 


266  DREAMING. 

a  familiar  instrument  wholly  within  his  grasp;  for, 
if  the  nature  of  sleep,  of  dreaming,  of  reverie,  of 
insanity,  and,  indeed,  of  all  similar  states  of  the 
mind,  wholly  baffle  your  researches,  it  seemeth  lo 
me  the  province  of  your  boasted  science  is  greatly 
rainished — shorn  of  its  high  pretensions,  and  that 
doubt  upon  doubt,  as  Alp  upon  Alp,  must  conti- 
nually rise  before  us,  with  but  little  hope  that  we 
shall  ever  truly  know  any  thing  beyond  plausible 
conjectures.' 

'By  no  means,'  hastily  replied  our  metaphysi- 
cian, 'would  you  repudiate  all  certainty  in  science, 
because  there  is  some  admitted  uncertainty,  or, 
even  in  some  things,  a  total  unacquaintance? 
Mental  philosophers  are  profitably  employed  only 
when  they  deal  with  mind  as  a  rational,  and 
therefore  accountable  existence,  which  can  be  pre- 
dicated of  the  mind  only  during  its  wakeful  state, 
or  its  equivalent,  perfect  sanity.  We  consequently 
study  the  mind  only  during  its  healthy  action,  in 
the  hope  of  any  really  profitable  result — that  is, 
when  it  is  guided  by  its  laws ;  and  we  look  upon 
those  fitful  or  lawless  actions  into  which  it  is  cast 
by  the  disarray  of  its  bodily  organs,  as  falling 
more  within  the  province  of  physics,  than  of  meta- 
physics. If  then,  we  do  study  minds  as  they  may 
be  affected  by  sleep,  by  dreaming,  insanity,  (fee.  it 
is  with  little  hope  of  becoming  really  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  laws  of  the  mind  itself,  since 
we  hold  that  this  spiritual  entity  is  wholly  incapa- 
ble of  disease ;  for  what  is  denominated  mental 
derangement  is  only  ostensible — the  same  as  when 


DREAMING.  267 

we  say  the  sun  rises — and  yet  the  sun  remains  the 
same,  it  being  the  earth  that  has  revolved — and 
so  as  to  insanity,  the  mind  continues  the  same,  but 
its  outlets,  its  organs  have  undergone  a  change; 
and  so  again  with  dreaming.' 

'The  mind,  in  truth,  has  not  dreamed,'  con- 
tinued the  sturdy  metaphysician,  'it  may  have 
thought  wisely,  but  the  wise  thoughts  have  been 
cast  into  disarray  by  the  state  of  its  customary 
channels — in  fine,  it  is  the  derangement  of  the 
bodily  organs,  (which  are  but  so  many  vehicles 
for  the  mind)  which  causes  the  mind  itself  to 
appear  affected,  since  the  media  of  its  manifesta- 
tions are  diseased,  and  not  the  intellectual  entity. 
Let  the  physician  study  these  states  of  the  bodily 
organs,  whilst  the  metaphysician  restricts  himself 
to  the  pure  essence ;  so  that  when  sleep,  (which  is 
a  quasi  disease  brought  on  by  the  body's  exhaus- 
tion) or  insanity  come  on,  the  labours  of  the  meta- 
physician terminate — for  the  outlets  and  avenues 
of  healthy  mental  action  are  then  closed;  and,  as 
to  the  mental  philosopher,  the  mind  is  then  in  a 
lawless  state.' 

An  avowal  so  startling  as  this,  in  which  truth 
and  error  were  so  strangely  blended,  and  this,  too, 
from  'lips  oracular,'  as  those  of  my  metaphysical 
friend  aspired  to  be,  cast  me  for  a  moment  all 
aback !  But  the  gloss  of  a  wordy  jargon,  or  the 
high  authority  of  a  scholar,  cannot  always  gild 
with  delusive  splendour  those  follies  which  wis- 
dom sometimes  utters.  I  have  often  found  that 
learned  men  can  neither  endure  an  exposure  of 
their  limited  knowledge  of  some  favourite  science, 


268  DREAMING. 

nor,  still  less,  the  actually  crude  state  of  the  science 
itself — and  so  was  it  with  him  ;  for  though  deeply 
versed  in  metaphysical  lore,  from  Aristotle  and 
Plato,  down  to  Cogan  and  Brown,  he  sought 
refuge  in  a  folly  unworthy  of  himself,  and  of  his 
science;  and  reposed  upon  a  distinction  that 
showed,  either  the  vanity  of  learning  in  disciplin- 
ing the  mind  to  sober  judgments,  or  that  no  little 
of  what  passes  for  knowledge  is  really  little  else 
than  a  mere  nomenclature,  the  vehicle  of  no  very 
definite  thought.  I  tlierefore  laconically  replied 
that,  'unmixed  pneumatology  seemed  to  me  the 
most  idle  of  human  studies  ;  and,  when  separated 
from  its  natural  ally,  physics,  was  as  hopeless  of 
profitable  results,  as  would  be  a  rigid  divorce  of 
the  sexes!' — and  so  our  colloquy  ended. 

In' what  I  have,  therefore,  to  say  of  Dreaming, 
I  at  once  disclaim  all  acquaintance  with  its  origin, 
and  its  philosophy.  I  have  no  theories,  metaphy- 
sical, physical,  or  even  phrenological  to  oflfer :  and 
yet,  what  some  have  thought,  or  fancied  upon  the 
the  subject,  need  not  be  wholly  passed  by — which, 
with  many  curious  facts  respecting  dreams,  their 
moral  and  intellectual  influences,  and  the  many 
wild  notions  that  have  sullied  this  portion  of 
human  science,  may  aflJ'ord  some  instruction,  pos- 
sibly, some  amusement. 

When  one  poet  tells  us  that 

'Dreams  are  but  interludes  which  fancy  makes, 
When  monarch  reason  sleeps,  this  mimic  wakes ; 
Compounds  a  medley  of  disjointed  things, 
A  mob  of  cobblers,  and  a  court  of  kings  : 
Light  fumes  are  merry,  grosser  fumes  are  sad  ; 
Both  are  the  reasonable  soul  run  mad.' 


DREAMING.  269 

And   when   another,  in   nearly   similar    terms, 
declares  that 

'Dreams  are  the  children  of  an  idle  brain, 
Begot  of  nothing  but  vain  fantasy ; 
Which  is  as  thin  of  substance  as  the  air; 
And  more  inconstant  than  the  wind ;' 

we  have  in  these  the  so  caWed  philosophy  of  dream- 
ing I     These  notions  have  been  current,  and  even 
popular,   from   the   earliest   ages;    and,    with   but 
slight  variations,  may  be  found  among  all  nations. 
And  yet,  is  it  by  any  means  true  that  dreams  are 
the  progeny  oi  fancy  alone — that  reason  is  then 
sound  asleep — that  merry  dreams  are  generated  by 
temperance,  and   sad  ones  by  excess ;  that  light 
fumes  cheer  the  soul,  and  grosser  ones  occasion 
sadness,   and    hence   give   rise   to    the   agreeable 
fancies   of  the  one   class,  or   to  the  horrors  and 
glooms  of  the  other?     Such  notions  may  suit  the 
philosophy  of  the  poets,  but  shrink  from  the  induc- 
tive processes  of  the    more  severe  searches  after 
truth.     Dreams  are,  indeed,  very  often  the  coinage 
of  an  idle  brain ;  fancy  is  usually  predominant  m 
them ;  reason  is  often  extremely  at  fault ;  memo- 
ry utterly  faithless,  and  judgment  totally  perverted. 
But,  is  not   the  reverse  of  all   these  equally  true 
sometuiies?     And,   if  so,   what   becomes   of    the 
theory  of  dreaming  based  on   this  popular  philo- 
sohy?     How  often  are  dreams    characterized   by 
the  most  acute  reasoning — how  minute  and  vivid 
is  memory — how  chaste,  yet  brilliant  is  fancy — 
how    solid   is    judgment — how   alive   are   all    the 
feelings — how  pure  and   sound  the  morals — how 


270  DREAMING. 

almost  superhuman  is  the  vision — and  how  con- 
sistent is  the  whole  drama  of  some  dreams !  Now, 
in  both  these  classes  of  dreams,  sleep  is  perfect 
and  healthful;  and  yet  in  the  one,  the  soul  is 
abandoned  to  the  wildest  creations  of  fancy — in 
the  other,  every  faculty  seems  endued  with  preter- 
natural vigour!  The  theory  of  ages,  then,  must 
be  false ;  or,  at  most,  can  be  invoked  only  in 
behalf  of  some  dreams  ;  and,  if  so,  it  seems  to 
be  entitled  to  but  little  regard. 

Being  myself  a  great  dreamer,  and  so  much  so 
as  to  feel  myself  entitled  to  speak  ex  cathedra,  I 
have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  very  essence 
of  mind  consists  in  thought ; — that  it  is  an  ever- 
thinking  entity,  equally  in  action  during  sleep,  as 
in  wakefulness  ;  and  that  all  men  dream  as  neces- 
sarily, as  the  body  breathes,  (though,  on  waking, 
they  may  instantly  forget  their  dreams;)  and  fur- 
ther, that  all  animals  capable  of  thought,  must 
necessarily  dream. 

Were  the  chronicles  of  dreaming  faithfully  given 
to  the  world,  what  a  still  more  curious  animal 
would  man  appear,  than  philosophy  has  yet  un- 
folded him  !  From  my  own  experience,  I  am  so 
sure  of  this,  that  should  I  here  note  (were  it  now 
possible  for  me  so  to  do)  all  the  curiosa  and  memo- 
rabilia of  my  sleeping  existence,  it  is  possible 
that  all  the  tales  of  fiction  of  a  century  would 
scarce  afford  half  the  wonders  that  would  thus  be 
chronicled ! — dreams  of  exquisite  enjoyment,  of 
unearthly  horror,  of  the  crudest  fancies,  of  the 
chastest  imaginings — dreams  of  unmixed  folly,  of 


DREAMING.  271 

sublime  wisdom,  of  fervid  eloquence,  of  poetry, — 
dreams  of  extreme  good-nature,  of  ugly  malevo- 
lence, of  violent  anger,  of  passive  submission — 
dreams  of  the  most  vivid  memory,  of  the  brightest 
reminiscences;  and  finally,  dreams  in  which  all 
consciousness  of  the  past  was  gone — dreams  in. 
which  long  absent  friends  and  the  tenderly 
lamented  dead,  were  all  present  before  me,  but 
without  exciting  the  least  surprise  or  emotion, 
and  in  which  1  conversed  with  them,  as  wholly 
oblivious  of  their  melancholy  departure,  as  if  no 
such  events  had  ever  happened  ! 

But  all  this,  even  if  it  were  possible  for  me  to 
set  them  forth  with  that  graphic  art  which  should 
present  them  as  vividly  to  the  minds  of  others,  as 
they  appeared  to  mine  when  wrapt  in  sleep,  still 
fade  away  before  the  remarkable  and  strictly  veri- 
table fact  of  the  pei^iodical  repetitio7i  of  dreams ! 
How  great  was  my  surprise  when  I  first  detected 
this  in  myself,  beyond  the  penumbra  of  a  doubt! — 
for,  during  five  consecutive  years,  in  the  month  of 
July,  the  same  dream  periodically  returned  upon 
me — so  that  it  finally  became  so  'learn'd  and 
conn'd  by  rote,'  that  in  the  very  dream,  I  recog- 
nized my  old  acquaintance,  anticipated  the  coming 
scenes,  dreamed  that  it  was  but  a  dream;  and, 
from  this,  derived  some  consolation ! — for  the 
dream  was  not  an  agreeable  one.  This  dreaming 
habit  was  eventually  dispelled  only  by  an  exten- 
sive travel,  and  it  then  vanished  from  me  for  ever  ! 

Some  doubting  and  dozing  ass   may,  possibly, 
be  not  only  sceptical,  but  think  it  folly  to  record 


272  DREAMING. 

the  fact ;  and,  in  the  spirit  of  a  sleepy  philosophy, 
may  sagely  ask,  'cui  bono?"^  If  such  an  one  there 
be,  I  shall  not  argue  the  matter  with  him,  but 
simply  assure  his  ass-ship  that,  if  he  will  but  read 
the  annals  of  dreaming,  during  a  period  of  more 
than  three  thousand  years,  he  will  find  therein 
equal  marvels  with  the  one  now  told  ;  and,  I  doubt 
not,  he  may  also  encounter  sufficient  precedents  of 
the  like  in  others,  to  vindicate  me  from  the  impli- 
cations involved  in  his  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  his 
shake  of  the  head,  and  those  other  criterions  of 
deep  dubiety  ! 

To  the  more  courteous  reader,  however,  I  would 
remark  that  the  gradual  fixation  of  habits,  whether 
physical  or  mental,  is  among  the  most  recondite 
and  curious  of  nature's  operations  ;  and  sometimes 
exhibits  such  strange  freaks,  as  to  excite  great  won- 
der— but  that  these  have  been  so  well  authenticated, 
as  to  banish  all  incredulity.  If  to  this  we  add  the 
equally  mysterious,  but  undoubted  sympathy  or 
harmony  between  the  world  of  inanimate  matter, 
and  the  animal  and  intellectual  economy  of  man, 
we  are  furnished  with  a  series  of  phenomena  that 
would  startle  the  most  credulous,  were  the  facts  in 
the  least  degree  doubtful.  Those  deeply  learned 
in  such  facts,  and  those,  on  the  contrary,  who  have 
never  treasured  up  many,  are  the  two  classes  least 
liable  to  doubt;  for  all  nature  is  so  full  of  wonders, 
that  the  learned  are  often  admonished  not  to 
doubt — and  hence  become  credulous ;  whilst  the 
ignorant  possess  so  few  of  the  elements  wherewith 
they  may  deliberately  doubt,  that  they  likewise  are 


DREAMING.  273 

apt  to  be  credulous,  and  to  yield  submissively  to 
mere  authority.  From  these  two  causes  have 
arisen  many  of  the  superstitions  of  the  learned 
and  the  ignorant,  with  all  their  train   of  fancies. 

We  sometimes,  also,  find  that  among  rude  na- 
tions, imagination  is  apt  to  gain  such  an  ascen- 
dancy, that  life  itself  is  nearly  a  perpetual  dream  ! 
They  sometimes  conceive  that  men  are  constantly 
haunted  by  shadowy  forms  and  visions  ;  that  these 
are  thin  and  material  essences,  which  unceasingly 
play  around  the  mind  ;  and  that  by  indulging  them 
to  satiety,  they  will  take  their  flight,  at  least  for  a 
time,  and  thus  that  the  disease  even  of  madness, 
being  produced  by  these  ethereal  forms,  may  be 
mitigated,  and  possibly  cured  by  them  !  On  this 
superstition  is  it  that  some  nations,  with  the  view 
of  giving  vent  to  the  misfortunes  of  a  superabun- 
dant fancy,  establish  what  they  call  dream-feasts, 
during  which  the  visionaries  are  permitted  to  do 
whatever  their  wildest  imaginations  may  suggest ! 
And  among  the  Abiponian  Indians,  a  periodical 
madness  is  said  to  exist  for  a  short  time,  of  which 
those  afflicted  by  it  have  no  consciousness  what- 
ever during  their  long  intervals  of  sanity  !  But 
what  is  still  more  remarkable,  and  to  our  purpose, 
it  is  further  said  that  the  disease  may  be  mitigated, 
nay  cured,  by  voluntarily  anticipating  its  vagaries, 
in  a  mode  similar  to  these  dream-feasts  ! 

Now,  all  this  would  be  comprehensible  enough, 

or  at  least  it  would  be  more  believable,  were  those 

who  are  most  imaginative  when   awake,  less   so 

when  asleep ;   whereas   the   fact  is  generally  the 

24 


274  DREAMING. 

reverse  of  this,  as  those  dream  the  most,  who, 
when  awake,  are  remarkable  for  their  fancy.  And 
yet  this  is  not  invariably  the  case,  many  leaden- 
headed  persons  being  instinct  with  the  richest 
fancies,  and  much  given  to  poetical  creations,  as 
soon  as 

'Sleep's  dewy  wand 
Strok'd  down  their  drooping  lids!' 

Some  philosophers  have  gravely  told  us  that  sleep 
and  death  are  but  twin-brothers,  that  the  corporal 
symptoms  of  'tir'd  nature's  sweet  restorer,'  are,  not 
metaphorically,  but  actually  and  philosophically, 
analogous  to  those  of  deathl — and  hence  that  the 
spiritual  symptoms  of  both  must  be,  in  a  degree, 
the  same.  According  to  this  idea  is  it  that  the 
mind  during  sleep  is  enabled  to  experience  such 
deep  and  vivid  sensations  of  pleasure,  of  pain,  and 
of  vision ;  for,  being  then  partially  disenthralled 
from  its  bodily  connections,  the  mind  wanders  in 
a  state  of  celestial  juvenility ;  its  perceptions  are 
ardent  and  clear,  and  are  often  so  brilliant,  and 
even  violent,  as  to  fill  tlie  soul  with  unutterable 
joys,  or  with  unmingled  horrors!  These,  though 
thus  powerful,  are  sometimes  extremely  evanes- 
cent, and  the  soul's  utmost  exertions  fail  entirely 
to  realize  any  of  them  beyond  a  few  minutes  after 
sleep  has  passed  off. 

Thus  is  it  that  dreams  may  well  be  regarded 
as  a  presage,  though  a  feeble  one,  of  the  soul's 
condition  after  actual  death;  for,  if  the  mind 
allied  to  the  body,  as  it  still  is  during  sleep  by  a 
thousand  latent  ties,  be  yet  capable  of  wandering 


DREAMING.  275 

amidst  the  untold  beauties  of  heaven,  or  the  un- 
imaginable horrors  of  Satan's  domain ;  if  the 
soul,  in  dreams,  can  realize  a  youthful  world, 
replete  with  light,  and  joys,  and  the  most  varied 
beauties,  and  all  with  a  fidelity  of  vision — a  clair- 
voyance which  baffles  description,  and  even  concep- 
tion, when  we  are  awake  ;  and  if  the  soul  in  these 
visions  of  the  night,  can  also  experience  scenes  of 
menial,  and  apparently  of  bodily  agony,  equally 
beyond  the  reach  of  imagination,  or  of  the  powers 
of  memory  to  portray  them  during  our  waking 
existence,  may  it  not  with  truth  be  held  that  sleep 
and  death  have  much  in  common,  and  that  they 
who  through  life  have  dreamed  much,  and  who 
have  carefully  noted  the  phenomena  of  dreaming, 
will  probably  have  a  juster  conception  of  the  bliss 
and  misery  of  an  hereafter,  than  those  are  capable 
of,  who  but  seldom  dream,  or  who  are  habitually 
inattentive  to  these  impressive  and  infinitely  varied 
scenes  of  our  sleeping  existence  ?  I  think  so,  and 
Lord  Byron  hath  truly  said, 

Sleep  hath  its  own  world 
And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality ; 
And  dreams  in  their  development  have  breath, 
And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy. 

But  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  the  pheno- 
mena of  dreaming,  and  which  seems  to  bring  the 
soul's  state  yet  closer  to  that  of  death,  is  the  ex- 
treme rapidity  with  which  multitudinous  events 
pass  through  the  mind,  really  in  a  moment  of  time, 
though   seemingly  in   our   dreams,  only  progres- 


276  DREAMING. 

sively,  and  most  naturally.  In  such  cases,  the 
events,  and  feelings,  and  thoughts,  and  actions  of 
years,  as  it  were,  flit  through  the  brief  span  of  but 
a  few  hours,  sometimes  of  but  as  many  minutes ! 
In  them  extensive  countries  are  traversed — thou- 
sands of  occurrences  seem  to  follow  in  orderly 
sequence — all  the  alternations  of  joys  and  of  sor- 
rows are  experienced — momentous  plans  are  formed 
and  deliberated,  and  executed;  and  the  exciting 
drama,  almost  of  a  life,  is  regularly  gone  through — 
and  yet,  when  the  busy  sleeper  hath  been  roused 
from  his  couch,  exhausted  by  the  pressure  of  so 
many  exciting  scenes  and  events,  he  is  astonished 
to  find,  perhaps,  that  he  has  been  slumbering  in 
his  comfortable  fauteuil^  only  during  an  half  hour 
after  dinner ! 

So  again,  some  have  slept  for  days,  others 
have  been  in  a  kind  of  trance  for  several  weeks, 
and  yet  with  no  note  of  time,  with  no  cog- 
nizance of  their  existence,  or  with  no  visions 
that  memory  could  grasp;  and,  after  these  long 
intervals,  they  have  awoke  Avith  no  more  con- 
sciousness of  the  past,  than  if  during  these  periods 
they  had  been  blotted  out  of  existence,  or  than  if 
their  souls  had  been  entirely  separated  from  their 
clayey  tenements  !  In  such  cases,  time  seems  to 
have  been  annihilated,  and  the  soul  seems  to  have 
returned  to  the  Eternal  Fountain  of  intellectual- 
ity— and  yet  we  know,  physiologically,  that  its 
ties  with  the  body  have  been  so  perfectly  maintained, 
that  there  has  been  no  loss  of  vitality,  but  rather  a 
gain  in  the  vis  insita!     May  not  the  eternity  which 


DREAMING.  277 

follows  death,  pass  on  forever  with  the  same  un- 
consciousness of  time,  however  full  it  may  be  of 
visions  of  bliss,  or  of  horror,  as  the  case  may  be  ? 
Some  have  so  supposed  ;  for  time  and  eternity 
must  differ,  not  only  in  point  of  duration,  but  es- 
sentially ;  the  former  being  that  consciousness  of 
portions  of  eternity,  which  belongs  only  to  Ji7iite 
existences ;  and  the  latter,  though  with  the  same 
consciousness  of  pleasure  and  of  pain,  is  yet 
wholly  without  note  of  time.  Even  in  the  case 
just  stated,  of  sleep  during  many  days  or  weeks, 
the  mind,  no  doubt,  was  continually  thinking;  and 
the  sleepers,  during  their  long  communion  with 
Morpheus,  and  the  rest,  were  still  subject  to  joys 
and  sorrows,  but  with  little,  if  any,  note  of  time — 
and  hence,  on  awaking,  with  no  power  of  reminis- 
cence. But  I  fear  I  am  getting  into  metaphysics, 
which  had  better  have  been  left  to  my  friend, 
whose  philosophy,  in  the  beginning  of  my  Note,  I 
so  little  prized,  but  whose  conversation  seduced  me 
into  this  hunting  after  the  marvels  of  dreaming, 
and  of  the  invisible  world. 

I  have  often  thought  that  were  a  long  continued 
series  of  inquiries  instituted  respecting  sleep;  were 
the  visions,  and  dreams,  and  reveries,  and  fancies 
of  persons  of  all  ages,  and  sexes,  and  conditions, 
and  countries,  carefully  and  authentically  collect- 
ed— and  were  all  of  these  arranged,  under  such  a 
system  of  classes,  orders,  genera,  species  and  varie- 
ties, as  a  truly  Linnajan  metaphysician  and  physi- 
cian might  form,  the  result  of  such  an  inductive 
process  would  scarce  fail  to  yield  a  most  curious 

24* 


278  DREAMING. 

and  profitable  chapter  in  the  chronicles  of  mental 
philosophy.  Plants,  minerals,  animals — nay,  even 
lightnings,  clouds,  and  snows,  have  been  thus 
carefully  arranged  and  classified,  and  why  not 
dreams?  Of  dreams,  there  are  some  which  seem 
to  be  common  to  the  whole  race  of  man ;  and  it  is 
not  a  little  curious  to  note  the  variations,  not  in 
essence,  but  in  minor  details,  which  even  the 
classes  of  dreams  endure,  according  to  the  highly 
civilized,  or  savage  state  of  the  nation  to  which 
the   sleeping  individuals  belong. 

It  is  likewise  an  amusing  and  instructive  field 
of  inquiry  to  observe  how  these  nocturnal  visions 
are  affected  by  many  adventitious  causes,  either 
general  or  particular — personal  idiosyncrasies,  as 
well  as  outward  and  more  general  causes,  giving 
to  the  classes  of  dreams  appropriate  variations ; 
for  the  temperament  of  individuals,  from  local  or 
merely  personal  causes,  as  likewise  the  general 
face  of  a  country,  as  whether  mountainous,  or 
champaign,  sterile  or  luxuriant,  interior  or  bound- 
ing upon  the  sea,  sandy  or  prairie,  warmed  by  an 
ardent  or  a  feeble  sun,  are  all  but  so  many  causes 
to  vary  the  same  classes  of  dreams. 

In  all  nations,  and  in  all  states  of  society  these 
classes  will  be  found.  Were  I  writing  a  treatise 
on  dreaming,  these  might  be  carefully  enumerated; 
but  in  a  mere  Note,  I  may  only  advert  to  a  few,  as 
for  example,  to  that  peculiar  sensation,  we  all  expe- 
rience in  dreams,  of  falling  from  lofty  heights — the 
skimming  over  extensive  surfaces  with  the  rapidity 
of  a  bird,  attended  with  a  notion  in  the  dreamer  that 


DREAMING.  279 

he  alone  is  widowed  with  this  enviable  faculty — 
the  flight  from  some  pursuing  danger,  which  ends 
with  the  dreamer's  being  left  somewhat  in  the  rear, 
whilst  his  more  fortunate  companions  are  seen 
before  him  in  comparative  safety — the  unexpected 
and  awkward  predicament  of  finding  one-self  in  a 
state  of  nudity,  or  of  some  other  great  shame, 
which  sorely  mortifies  us,  and  at  the  very  time, 
too,  when  most  solicitous  to  appear  to  advantage; 
and  an  hundred  others,  are  dreams  experienced  by 
all,  be  he  king  or  cobbler,  sage  or  fool! 

Another  class  of  dreams,  almost  equally  universal, 
is  that  in  which  the  dreamer  is  invested  with  well 
known  faculties,  but  in  a  very  superior  degree  to 
that  in  which  he  is  possessed  of  them  during  his 
wakefulness.  We  are  sometimes  endued  with  a 
lofty  eloquence,  rapid,  chaste,  and  commanding — in 
others  we  become  highly  poetical;  and,  with  an  im- 
provisotarial  faculty,  wholly  unknown  to  us  when 
awake,  we  seem  to  revel  in  its  exercise,  and  to 
delight  others  no  less  than  ourselves,  in  all  that  is 
rich,  and  flowing,  and  copious  in  versification,  and 
in  all  appropriate  imagery!  How  many  admirable 
letters,  also,  are  written,  speeches  delivered,  poems 
recited,  witty  replies  made,  sage  advice  given — 
which,  could  they  but  be  remembered  and  com- 
mitted to  the  faithful  page,  would  raise  the  dreamer 
from  obscurity  to  immortality! — a  fool,  then,  awake 
is  not  necessarily  a  fool  asleep!  —  and  though 
dreams  do  certainly,  in  general,  derive  their  cha- 
racter from  the  mental  status  of  the  dreamer,  as  it 
is  manifested  by  him  when  awake,  yet  it  is  equally 


280  DREAMING. 

certain  that  the  soul,  when  thus  partially  relieved 
by  sleep  from  its  thraldom,  does  sometimes  become 
endued  with  very  transcendant  powers,  and  even 
with  those  in  high  perfection,  which  are,  either 
wholly  denied,  or  which  are  remarkably  hebetated 
in  the  individual,  during  his  waking  existence  ! 

The  ancients,  who,  from  superstitious  impulses, 
were  led  to  pay  particular  attention  to  this  faculty, 
have  endeavoured  to  account  for  the  production  of 
dreams,  upon  various  principles,  both  physical  and 
supernatural :  but  notwithstanding  their  religion 
induced  them  to  investigations,  which  might  have 
otherwise  been  neglected,  they  are  very  far  from 
an  unanimity  of  sentiment,  and  are  perhaps  a 
greater  remove  from  the  truth  than  the  moderns. 

Such  dreams  as  were  held  the  result  of  divine, 
or  at  least  of  supernatural  agency,  were  of  three 
kinds — first,  such  wherein  the  gods^  or  departed 
spirits,  appeared  to  man,  in  their  real  and  some- 
times assumed  forms — as  where  Morpheus,  the 
god  of  dreams,  assumed  the  body  of  old  Nestor^ 
and  appeared  to  Agamemnon,  strongly  urging  him 
to  give  battle  to  the  Trojans — or  where  the  beau- 
tiful goddess  Persephone^  upbraided  Pindar,  the 
celebrated  lyric  poet,  for  neglect,  in  having  sung 
the  praises  of  all  the  other  goddesses  and  preter- 
mitted her;  the  poet  made  her  the  most  friendly 
promises  of  future  notice,  and  after  death,  appeared 
in  a  dream  to  a  matron  relation  of  his,  and  recited 
a  poem  composed  by  him  in  honour  of  this  roman- 
tic  goddess ! 


DREAMING.  281 

The  second  class  of  dreams,  was,  that  in  which 
future  events  are  figuratively  or  typographically 
revealed — such  was  Caesar's  unnatural  dream, 
which  was  evidently  in  allusion  to  his  future 
greatness,  when  he  should  hold  the  empire  of  the 
earth,  the  co7nmon  mother  of  all  things  animate  or 
inanimate. 

Such,  also,  are  most  of  the  dreams  recorded  in 
the  Sacred  Writ. 

The  third  kind,  was  such  wherein  things  which 
were  to  happen  were  fairly  and  perspicuously  deli- 
neated. 

Nearly  of  this  kind  was  that  of  Croesus,  the 
Lydian  king,  who  dreamed  that  his  son,  Atys, 
would  be  slain  by  an  iro7i  weapon — Atys  was  for 
a  long  time  forbidden  the  use  of  arms,  but  having 
at  length  prevailed  upon  his  father  to  permit  him 
to  hunt  down  a  wild  boar,  which  for  a  long  time 
had  been  the  terror  of  the  neighbourhood,  he  was 
imfortunately  slain  by  his  guardian  Adrastus. 

Various  have  been  the  opinions  of  the  ancients 
as  to  the  cause  of  dreams.  According  to  Lucre- 
tius, they  are  occasioned  by  images,  or  simulacra, 
emitted  by  all  corporeal  things :  these  floating  in 
the  air  in  vast  and  miscellaneous  abundance,  are 
presented  to  the  soul  in  sleep,  and  sometimes 
during  wakefulness — and  thus  give  rise  to  dreams, 
and  to-day  visions.  Some  have  asserted  that 
all  dreams  have  their  genesis  from  the  earth, 
either  by  its  obstructing  the  passage  of  the  solar 
light,  and  thereby  occasioning  night,  which  was 
esteemed   a  state  of  the   atmosphere   particularly 


282  DREAMING. 

favourable  to  the  formation  of  dreams,  or  from  the 
fumes  exhaled  from  the  stomach,  which,  during 
the  digestive  process,  were  thought  to  occasion  an 
artificial  atmosphere  round  the  body  of  the  sleeper, 
retarding  the  motion  of  the  animal  spirits,  and  so 
affecting  the  brain,  that  the  accustomed  operations 
of  the  mind  are  disturbed ;  and  wandering  unre- 
strained by  reason,  or  by  the  force  of  habit,  into 
the  regions  of  fancy,  give  birth  to  these  strange 
representations  called  natural  or  ordinary  dreams. 

It  is  obvious  that  those  who  were  anxious  for  a 
true  or  prophetic  dream,  would  sedulously  avoid 
eating  such  diet  as  is  not  easy  of  digestion  ;  hence 
it  became  almost  a  science  to  ascertain  the  qualities 
of  the  various  articles  of  diet ;  but  fish,  raw  fruits 
of  all  kinds,  beans,  and  wines,  were  never  in- 
dulged in  by  such  as  were  anxious  for  a  true  or 
prophetic  dream ! 

Although  the  false  or  unproplietic  dreams  were 
generally  ascribed  to  the  physical  operation  of  food 
on  the  brain,  yet  they  were  also  imputed  to  the 
infernal  deities  or  spirits,  as  is  said  by  Virgil  in 
his  sixth  ^neid — 

'Sed  falsa  ad  Coelum  mittunt  insomnia  manes.' 

Dreams  were  also  attributed  to  liUna,  or  Hecate, 
who,  was  the  guardian  of  the  night,  hence  she 
was  always  invoked  at  nocturnal  incantations,  and 
her  influence  was  greatly  vahicd  upon.  The  god- 
dess Brizo  of  Delos,  was  by  others  considered  the 
furnisher  of  dreams ;  so  also  hawks  and  vultures 
were  esteemed  souls  encompassed  in  material 
forms,  and  that  these  souls,  upon  the  dissolution 


DREAMING.  283 

of  the  birds,  being  divested  of  materiality,  assumed 
various  modifications,  and  appearing  to  man  whilst 
asleep,  revealed  the  true  or  prophetic  dreams. 

But  of  all  the  opinions  as  to  the  probable  cause 
of  dreams,  enumerated  by  ancient  writers,  none  is 
so  singular  and  visionary  as  that  mentioned  by  the 
Mantuan  poet  in  his  sixth  ^Eneid — the  delusive  or 
unprophetic  dreams  being  considered  by  him  to  be 
conveyed  by  various  messengers  of  Somnus,  from 
a  spreading  elm,  situated  near  the  portal  of  hell, 
to  whose  pendant  leaves  the  various  dreams  are 
attached,  and  from  thence  plucked  as  necessity 
requires  ! 

'In  medio  ramos  annosaque  brachia  pandit 
Ulmus  opaca,  ivgens  quam,  sedem  somnia  vulgo 
Vana  tenere  ferunt,  foliisque  subomnibus  hcsrent.^ 

'Full  in  the  midst  of  this  infernal  road 

An  elm  displays  her  dusky  arms  abroad, 

The  god  of  sleep  there  hides  his  heavy  head. 

And  empty  dreams  on  every  leaf  are  spread.' — Dryden. 

An  infinitude  of  dreams  were  considered  to 
attend  the  person  of  Somnus.  This  drowsy  god, 
as  Ovid  informs  us,  had  three  attendants,  who,  for 
their  ingenuity  and  perseverance  in  the  discharge 
of  their  various  functions,  have  been  particularly 
distinguished  from  the  rest.  These  were  Mor- 
pheus, Phantasia  and  Phobetor ;  the  office  of  the 
first  was  to  assume  the  human  form,  and  to  imitate 
their  actions,  manners  and  gestures  :  this  he  exe- 
cuted with  such  an  exquisite  versatility  of  power, 
that  he  is  frequently,  by  way  of  eminence,  called 
the  god  of  sleep,  and  hence  often  confounded  with 


284  DREAMING. 

his  great  master  Somniis.  Phantasia  had  the  deh- 
neation  of  the  inanimate  world  for  his  employment, 
and  often  presented  a  luxuriant  feast  to  the  pic- 
turesque imagination ;  rocks,  fountains,  cascades, 
verdant  groves,  and  purling  streams,  he  frequently 
so  happily  united,  as  to  render  the  scene  more 
exquisitely  grand,  than  the  happiest  delineation  of 
the  pencil,  or  the  finest  combinations  of  nature  and 
art.  But  at  other  times,  as  if  entirely  bereaved  of 
his  judgment,  he  would  picture  such  an  heteroge- 
neous group,  as  could  not  but  force  a  smile  on  the 
face  of  the  most  stoic  sleeper,  so  violating  every 
rule  of  proportion,  nature  and  beauty,  as  more 
than  to  incur  the  satirical  remark  of  Horace, 

'Delphinum  appingit  sylvis  in  fluctibus  aprum.' 

But  this  great  versatility  of  genius  rendered 
Phantasia  an  extreme  favourite,  particularly  with 
the  poets,  who,  no  doubt,  deduced  many  of  their 
finest  images  from  his  delineations. 

Phobetor  was  of  a  very  different  cast.  He  em- 
ployed himself  in  assuming  the  likenesses  of  the 
animal  but  irrational  part  of  the  creation,  taking 
frequently  that  of  the  serpent,  to  which  he  seemed 
much  attached.  His  office  also  was  the  inspiration 
of  terror — hence  the  incubus,  or  night  mare,  with 
most  of  our  unpleasant  dreams,  may  be  placed  to 
his  account ! 

But  the  principal  originator  of  dreams,  and  the 
master  of  these  three  preceding  personages,  was 
Somnus,  who  as  Ovid  mentions,  had  his  habita- 
tion among  the  Cimmerii,  a  nation  on  the  western 
coast  of  Italy.     In  this  rude  and  savage  country 


DREAMING.  285 

was  his  den  or  palace,  so  happily  described  by 
this  beautiful  poet.  Around  him  lay  myriads  of 
dreams,  of  every  description,  prophetic,  delusive, 
pleasant,  terrible,  clear,  confused,  long,  short,  and 
in  fact  dreams  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  which  at 
pleasure  were  carried  forth  either  by  himself  or 
his  messengers  ! 

In  this  palace  of  Somnus  were  two  grand  portals 
or  avenues,  through  which  all  dreams  were  consi- 
dered to  pass. 

Delusive  dreams  were  imagined  to  pass  through 
an  ivory  gate,  and  the  'somnia  vera,'  or  prophetic, 
through  one  composed  of  transparent  and  well 
polished  horn. 

'Two  gates  the  silent  house  of  sleep  adorn. 
Of  polish'd  ivory  this — that  of  transparent  horn. 
True  visions  through  transparent  born  arise, 
Thro'  polish'd  ivory  pass  delusive  lies.' — Dryden's  Virg. 

Great  attention  was  paid  to  the  characteristics  or 
distinguishing  marks  of  the  tnie  or  divine  dreams, 
and  among  other  things  greatly  relied  on,  was  the 
time  or  period  of  the  night  in  which  the  dream 
happened.  The  most  generally  received  opinion 
was,  that  those  dreams  which  came  about  the 
dawn  of  day  are  the  most  distinct,  and  are  entitled 
to  the  greatest  degree  of  credence.    Of  this  opinion 

was  Horace. 

'Post  mediam  noctem  visus,  quam  somnia  vera,' 
So  also  Ovid, 

'Namque  sub  Aurora  jam  dormitante  lucerna 
Tempore  quo  cerni  somnia  vera  solent.' 

Likewise  Homer,  who  mentioning  the  propitious 
dream  of  Penelope  concerning  Telemachus,  then 
25 


286  DREAMING. 

in  search  of  his  father  Ulysses,  particularly  relied 
on  it,  since  it  had  appeared  to  her  at  the  early  dawn 
of  Aurora. 

This  opinion  was  founded  on  the  principle  or 
theory  already  mentioned,  that  delusive  dreams 
owe  their  genesis  to  the  physical  operation  of  food 
in  the  stomach,  during  the  digestive  process,  which 
sending  forth  a  cloud  of  fumes  that  surround  the 
body,  give  a  hebetude  to  the  intellectual  powers, 
and  occasion  those  disturbing  dreams  which  we 
frequently  have  in  the  early  part  of  the  night. 

But  in  the  morning,  when  the  mind  is  free  from 
any  unnatural  influence,  when  balmy  sleep  reno- 
vates the  body  and  infuses  new  life  and  vigour  into 
the  system,  this  period  naturally  suggested  itself  as 
the  time  in  which  the  divine  or  true  dreams  might 
be  expected  to  make  their  appearance. 

The  gods  of  the  'somnia  vera,'  (as  we  learn) 
were  not  lavish  iu  their  distribution  of  them  : — 
they  required  courting,  and  would  neither  deign  to 
penetrate  the  murky  atmosphere  of  animal  exhala- 
tion, nor  to  make  their  appearance  to  such  as  were 
clothed  in  an  improper  dress  or  colour  ! 

Hence  the  most  usual  night  dress  was  white, 
which  was  considered  to  have  a  considerable  in- 
fluence in  giving  both  perspicuity  and  veracity  to 
the  dream  ! 

It  would  require  volumes  to  recount  the  many 
strange  and  superstitious  notions  of  the  ancient 
world  with  regard  to  this  faculty ;  but  the  whole 
of  them  are  the  ofispring  of  ignorance,  superstition 
and  credulity. 


DREAMING.  287 

The  opinion  of  many  of  the  moderns,  though 
they  emanate  a  beam  of  truth  through  this  doeda- 
lian  intricacy,  are  nevertheless  frequently  marked 
by  extreme  folly. 

Mr.  Baxter's  theory,  which  is  one  of  the  earliest 
among  the  modern,  is  liable  to  the  same  objection, 
of  explaining  'ignotum  per  ignotius,'  as  is  sug- 
gested upon  a  review  of  the  ancient  opinions.  He 
conceives  them  to  be  produced  by  immaterial 
beings,  whose  sole  employment  is  the  formation 
of  these  delusions; — the  mode  in  which  this  is 
accomplished  I  will  not  stop  to  detail,  since  this 
hypothesis  is  so  entirely  conjecture,  and  so  unsup- 
ported by  evidence  or  analogy,  that  it  merits  no 
confutation. 

Walfiiis,  and  others,  have  held,  that  in  all  cases 
our  organs  of  sensation  participate  in  the  imagi- 
nary transactions  which  employ  the  mind  during 
sleep;  and  that  these  mental  illusions  are  always 
in  consequence  of  a  previous  excitement  of  the 
organs  of  sensation. 

But  the  principle  of  this  theory,  if  not  totally 
unfounded,  is  far  from  being  generally  true,  since, 
whilst  asleep,  we  are  generally  wholly  insensible 
to  external  impressions,  unless  they  are  pretty 
violent — beside  this,  where  is  the  necessity  of 
supposing  such  excitement  of  the  physical  organs 
to  uniformly  accompany  onr  dreams,  since  we 
know  that  both  the  imagination  and  the  fancy 
form  a  great  variety  of  scenes,  and  wander  far 
from  surrounding  objects  and  impressions,  without 
there  being  the  smallest  excitement  of  the  organs 


288  DREAMING. 

of  sensation,  to  create  such  varied  delineations? 
And  yet  there  have  been  anomalous  instances  of 
dreams  being  actually  produced  by  artificial  means, 
that  is  by  impressions  purposely  made  upon  the 
sleeper's  organs  of  sensation ;  such  was  the  case 
recorded  by  Dr.  Gregory  of  one  who,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  doctor's  application  to  his  feet  of 
bottles  with  heated  water,  dreamed  he  was  walk- 
ing on  the  hot  lava  of  Mount  Etna !  Another 
instance  is  mentioned  of  a  blister  applied  to  the 
head  having  occasioned  the  patient  to  dream  that 
he  had  been  scalped  by  Indians ! — and  Dr.  Beattie 
states  the  case  of  one  who  could  be  made  to  dream 
almost  ad  libitum,  by  gently  whispering  to  him ! 

Other  physiologists,  have  attributed  dreaming 
to  the  irregular  motion  of  the  nervous  fluid,  or  to 
a  deficient  supply  of  that  fluid  to  the  brain.  The 
brain  being  the  seat  of  judgment,  and  of  mental 
sensation,  if  not  duly  supplied  with  this  pabulum, 
will  necessarily  produce,  as  they  say,  that  uncon- 
nected and  disorderly  scene,  which  we  frequently 
have  whilst  asleep:  so  that  the  rationality  of  our 
dreams  is  considered  to  be  greatly  influenced  by 
the  quantum  of  nervous  fluid  supplied  to  the  brain. 
There  is  certainly  a  plausibility  in  tiiis  theory,  yet 
it  is  by  no  means  commensurate  to  the  various  phe- 
nomena of  dreaming — and,  as  soon  as  the  nature 
of  this  fluid,  if  there  be  such  an  one,  is  more  fully 
ascertained,  it  may  possibly  assist  us  in  the  inves- 
tigation of  this  intricate  subject. 

That  the  past  occurrences  of  the  day  should 
often  be  the  prominent  feature  of  our  dreams,  is 


DREAMING. 


289 


rational ;  and  that  frequently  the  curious  delinea- 
tions of  the  Imagination,  using  memory  during 
sleep,  may  be  considered  as  the  of&pring  of  this 
combining  faculty,  unattended  by  the  judgment, 
is  what  can  readily  be  admitted ;  but  this  by  no 
means  solves  the  many  difficulties  which  present 
themselves.  Innumerable  queries  may  be  put,  for 
explanation,  by  those  who  have  made  this  a  sub- 
ject of  consideration,  which  baffle  all  reasoning, 
and  cannot  but  force  the  profoundest  metaphysi- 
cians to  acknowledge  their  ignorance. 

If  it  be  true,  as  is  asserted,  that  some  never 
dream,  others  not  till  an  advanced  period  of  their 
lives — that  some-  never  fail  to  dream,  and  others 
dream  but  seldom,  these  are  phenomena,  which 
at  present  seem  to  be  wholly  inexplicable. 

We  often  fancy  ourselves  reading,  and  so  far 
enter  into  the  nature  and  spirit  of  the  author,  as 
to  be  able  distinctly  to  remember,  and  even  to 
recite,  the  language  and  ideas  of  the  composition! 

That  we  dream  of  nothing  but  what  has  re- 
cently (or  even  a  long  time  past)  occurred,  or  made 
its  impression,  is  denied  by  constant  experience ; 
so  neither  is  judgment  always  asleep;  for  many 
dreams  preserve  a  perfect  unity  and  connected- 
ness throughout,  and  are  frequently  as  well  told, 
and  rational  tales,  as  could  have  been  composed 
by  the  author,  during  the  brightest  moments  of 
his  wakefulness. 

The   great   variety   of   scenes,   pictured    to   us, 
during  sleep,  and  which   succeed  each  otiier  with 
the  rapidity  of  lightning,  though,  there  be  no  trace- 
25* 


•290  DREAMING. 

able  relation,  is,  as  I  have  before  remarked,  a 
phenomenon,  highly  curious.  I  have  before  now 
found  myself  in  a  theatre,  listening  with  all  ima- 
ginable interest,  to  the  eiiaction  of  a  tragedy,  and 
the  next  moment,  have  been  in  a  carriage  in  the 
streets  of  London,  perfectly  divested  of  the  feel- 
ings excited  by  the  performance  of  the  actors ! — 
such  a  rapid  flight  from  one  thing  to  another,  so 
unlike  it,  cannot  be  accounted  for  upon  any  prin- 
ciple of  association  of  ideas — but  this  is  a  minor 
difficulty,  in  comparison  of  others — one  of  greater 
magnitude  presents  itself,  which  is  the  astonishing 
power  of  the  imagination,  in  delineating  scenes  in 
all  their  natural  colours,  upon  a  scale  truly  sub- 
lime, and  frequently  very  far  surpassing  any  reality, 
when  the  same  faculty  (the  possessor  being  awake) 
refuses  to  furnish  the  plainest  image,  or  a  scene 
any  way  different  from  those  in  real  life:  for  many 
persons,  quite  of  a  Boeotian  imagination,  have 
dreams  of  which  even  a  Milton  might  have  been 
proud.  Some  men  are  icits  in  their  sleep,  who, 
during  wakefulness,  are  insufferably  dull — others 
have  the  acumen  of  genius,  who,  when  awake, 
are  men  of  very  ordinary  talents.  A  friend  of 
mine,  who,  from  experience,  justifies  the  correct- 
ness of  these  remarks,  declared  to  me,  that  the 
finest  imagery  to  be  found  in  his  compositions 
were  given  to  him  in  his  dreams,  and  that  for 
the  two  last  years,  he  has  been  accustomed  to 
write  down  every  fine  idea,  or  sublime  image, 
which  his  imagination  vouchsafed  during  sleep! 
Mr.   Coleridge's   Kubla  Khan  originated   in   this 


DREAMING.  291 

way.  He  fell  asleep  after  reading  of  the  Khan's 
splendid  palace,  and  of  his  stately  garden  ten  miles 
in  circumference !  and  during  a  sleep  of  a  few 
hours  he  composed  several  hundred  lines ;  which, 
on  waking,  he  instantly  committed  to  paper ;  and 
its  fragmentary  form  is  owing  to  the  dream  having 
faded  away  before  he  could  record  it !  Mathema- 
ticians, also,  have  been  known  to  solve  difficult 
problems  in  their  sleep,  which  they  had  hopelessly 
abandoned  when  awake;  and  to  this  faculty  musi- 
cians are  likewise  sometimes  indebted  for  their 
finest  passages. 

But  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  the  pheno- 
mena of  dreaming  is  the  revival  of  forgotten  lan- 
guages ;  for  dreamers  have  been  known  to  con- 
verse with  some  familiarity  in  a  language,  with 
which  they  have  scarce  any  recollection,  or  avail- 
able knowledge  when  awake ! 

Many  physicians  have  considered  dreams  to  take 
place  only  when  the  sleep  is  disturbed;  and  Haller 
has  even  gone  so  far  as  to  consider  them  sympto- 
matic of  disease,  disturbing  the  repose  of  the  sen- 
sorium,  and  thereby  debilitating  both  mind  and 
body.  And  our  own  enlightened  countryman,  the 
late  Dr.  Rush,  proceeds  a  step  further,  and  regards 
a  dieam  as  a  transient  paroxysm  of  delirium,  and 
delirium  as  a  permanent  dream  !  But  were  I  to 
judge  from  my  own  experience,  I  should  unhesita- 
tingly deny  all  of  these  positions  :  for,  a  continued 
and  dull  sleep,  unaccompanied  by  these  pleasing 
vagaries  of  the  imagination,  have  been  found  so  far 
from  renovating,  that  I  have  experienced  a  debility 


292  DREAMING. 

and  languor,  similar  to  that  resulting  from  morbid 
"wakefulness.  Disagreeable  dreams  certainly  do 
accompany  bodily  disorders,  and  during  a  febrile 
diathesis,  our  dreams  are  also  more  frequent,  and 
almost  universally  of  a  sombre  cast ;  but  the  con- 
verse of  this  is  by  no  means  true — that  whenever 
we  have  numerous  or  unpleasant  dreams,  the  body 
is  in  a  disordered  state.  Be  this,  however,  as  it 
may,  pleasant  or  indifferent  dreams  are  positively 
healthy,  are  perfectly  compatible  with  an  invigo- 
rating and  refreshing  sleep,  and  indeed,  are  fre- 
quently found  to  be,  as  it  were,  a  tonic  to  the 
mind,  occasioning  one  to  rise  in  the  morning  in 
better  health  and  spirits,  than  might  have  been  the 
case,  had  the  usual  succession  of  these  delightful 
illusions  been  denied  to  him. 

The  general  cast,  or  nature  of  dreams,  is,  no 
doubt,  very  considerably  influenced  by  a  diffe- 
rence of  temperament.  A  man  of  a  sanguine  tem- 
perament, will,  by  no  means,  have  the  same  class  or 
description  of  dreams,  as  the  phlegmatic — this  obser- 
vation is  perhaps  equally  applicable  to  the  moral  as 
to  the  physical  temperament  of  man.  Plutarch  says, 
that  a  fair  argument  may  be  drawn  from  a  man's 
dream,  as  to  his  temper,  and  general  disposition; 
and  another  ancient  writer  is  of  opinion,  that  a 
wise  and  virtuous  man  will  be  alike  himself,  even 
in  his  sleep.  Of  the  general  correctness  of  this 
observation  there  can  be  but  little  doubt. 

Our  dreams  frequently  aflbrd  us  a  good  moral 
lesson.  By  them  we  may  learn  to  eschew  many 
indiscretions,  and  to  avoid  the  encroachments  of 


DREAMING.  293 

evil  habits. — The  feelings  excited  in  our  dreams 
by  the  follies  and  crimes  we  have  committed,  often 
leave  deep  impressions,  and  serve  to  guard  us 
against  the  further  commission  of  actions,  which, 
in  our  sleep,  gave  us  so  much  uneasiness. 

Shall  I  be  pardoned,  if  in  illustration  of 

their  moral  influences,  I  break  the  continuity  of 
my  discussion  by  an  example,  somewhat  in  the 
fashion  of  a  little  tale  ?  If  so,  kind  reader  !  come 
on  with  me ;  but,  if  not,  pass  on  to  what  I  have 
further  to  say  concerning  the  strange  things  that 
appertain  to  my  subject. 

A  DREAM. 

Marcellus  and  Parthenia  were  the  pride  of 
the  village  in  which  they  lived ;  he  possessing  in 
an  eminent  degree  every  amiable  virtue  of  the 
heart,  that  conciliated  affection,  and  of  the  mind, 
that  gives  weight  in  society — and  she,  as  lovely  in 
form  and  complexion  as  the  morning  dewy  rose, 
and  in  spirit,  as  gay  and  angelic  as  even  poet's 
fancy  could  portray.  Possessed  of  an  ample  patri- 
mony. Marcel! lis  at  an  early  age,  seemed  to  have 
consummated  all  earthly  bliss,  in  receiving  the 
affections  and  hand,  of  this  loveliest  and  best  of 
women.  A  few  years  glided  on,  more  in  ecstasy 
than  in  sober  happiness — every  succeeding  morn 
affording  some  new  source  of  bliss,  derived  from 
perfect  health,  from  youth,  fortune,  talents,  and  from 
the  affection  of  every  poor  villager  around  them ; 
and  the  pure  respect  of  the  more  intellectual,  who 
visited  their  homestead. 


294  DREAMING. 

Two  beautiful  boys,  the  offspring  of  their  ten- 
der love,  gave  to  Parthenia  and  her  doting  hus- 
band, the  promise  of  long  continued  joys  in  them, 
after  life's  more  buoyant  current  should  grow 
sluggish,  and  when  heaven's  reversion  in  close 
and  sweet  prospect,  should  mitigate  the  pain  of 
separation  ;  and  to  this  was  added  a  conscious- 
ness, that  their  elegant  and  exemplary  life  were 
gradually  refining  the  taste,  and  the  morals  of 
the  more  humble  and  less  intellectual  people,  with 
whom  they  so  kindly  communed.  Such  was 
the  state  of  these  congenial  and  virtuous  souls, 
united  by  the  holiest  of  ties,  and  encompassed 
with  the  smiles  and  benisons  of  God  and  of  man. 

But,  in  a  fatal  hour,  Marcellus  glided  into  the 
company  of  a  class  of  persons  known  as  geiitle- 
men  gamesters,  who  were  said  to  play  merely  joowr 
passer  le  temps^  and  for  small  sums,  only  suffi- 
cient to  add  a  little  interest  to  the  game — and  so  it 
really  was  at  first,  when  Marcellus  appeared  among 
them.  But  the  demon  of  avarice  was  not  late  in 
appearing,  and  amusement  was  finally  changed 
into  an  engrossing,  and  immolating  employment ! 
Under  the  mask  of  friendship,  which  still  con- 
tinued, they  were  undermining  each  other's  hap- 
piness, destroying  domestic  felicity,  and  entailing 
wretchedness  and  penury  on  those  whom  they 
tenderly  loved — on  wives,  children,  and  friends  ! 
It  was  Marcellus'  nature,  and  his  greatest  misfor- 
tune, to  suspect  no  one — full  of  virtuous  impulses, 
he  could  not  see  the  faults  of  others:  winning  or 
losing  gave  him,  at  first,  neither  pleasure  nor  pain  ; 


DREAMING.  295 

Others  around  him  were  falUng  into  the  abyss  more 
rapidly,  but  still  not  more  surely  than  he  was  : 
some  of  them  were  deeply  unprincipled,  they  flat- 
tered him  with  unwearied  attentions,  often  de- 
ceived him  by  apparent  generosity;  the  habit  was 
becoming  in  Marcellus  insensibly  confirmed — and 
he  began  to  tolerate  many  things  which,  in  the 
commencement,  would  have  filled  his  soul  with 
anguish. 

A  liberal  hospitality  was  extended  by  all  these 
friends  towards  the  gentle  Marcellus,  which,  as 
he  thought,  must  necessarily  be  reciprocated.  His 
house  was  thrown  open  to  them — it  became  a 
scene  of  elegant  festivity,  then  of  less  refined  dis- 
sipation, and  eventually,  an  arena  of  disgusting 
and  terrific  gambling — and  Marcellus  in  the  course 
of  the  year,  was  found  as  avowed  a  gambler  as  any 
of  his  companions ! 

His  sensible  and  devoted  wife  mourned  not  in 
silence  over  his  obvious  change  ;  she  often  won 
him  for  a  time,  by  her  tender  appeals ;  she  poured 
balm  into  his  wounded  soul ;  she  sustained  him 
in  the  dignity  of  his  character,  as  husband,  father, 
and  citizen;  she  argued,  but  railed  not;  and  she 
often  flattered  herself  the  victory  had  been  achieved. 
But  these  were  delusive  calms  in  an  ocean  now 
given  to  storms — ruin  was  glaringly  and  frightfully 
pendant  over  them — and  even  the  servants  and 
children  saw  the  impending  desolation,  and  united 
with  Parthenia  in  their  griefs.  The  devoted  wife 
and  mother  fervently  implored  heaven,  friends, 
children,  and  husband  to  avert  the  mischief — and, 


296  DREAMING, 

with  every  means  which  love,  reason,  shame,  grief, 
and  interest  could  invoke,  she  still  resolved  to  win 
him  from  his  fatal  malady.  But  all  were  tried  in 
vain !  His  property  was  nearly  gone,  his  health 
much  impaired,  his  heart  in  a  degree  indurated — 
and  the  constitution  and  inner  soul  of  the  pure 
and  lovely  Parthenia  were  so  wasted,  that  death 
would  have  been  a  welcome  messenger.  But 
Providence,  who  is  ever  a  God  of  means,  ordained 
it  otherwise. 

Marcellus,  after  his  wonted  dissipation,  re- 
turned as  usual  to  his  wife  in  the  dead  of  night, 
threw  himself  upon  his  bed ;  and  exhausted  with 
the  scenes  he  had  just  passed  through,  soon 
fell  asleep.  The  pangs  of  an  accusing  con- 
science haunted  him  in  his  dreams,  with  a 
vividness  and  a  stern  reality,  to  which  he  had 
been  for  months  wholly  a  stranger  in  his  waking 
hours;  and,  in  his  dreamy  wanderings,  his 
wretched  mind  finally  brought  him  to  the  cells 
of  man  deprived  of  reason.  Propitious  visions  ! 
Fancy  pictured  to  him,  at  first,  the  many  mingled 
horrors  that  grew  from  sudden  poverty — he  distinct- 
ly saw  hunger,  under  the  form  of  a  perishing  man, 
contending,  stealthily,  with  a  famished  dog,  as  to 
who  should  gain  a  loathsome  bone  ! — thirst  he  saw, 
with  parched  lips,  sucking  the  last  remnants  from 
a  filthy  cup  she  feebly  held  ! — childrefi,  with  hag- 
gard eyes,  were  dying  in  their  impoverished  mo- 
thers' arms  ;  and,  at  a  distance,  he  distinctly  beheld 
sumptuous  halls,  full  of  imperial  magnificence, 
and  with   numerous   tables  groaning  with  luxu- 


DREAMING.  297 

rious  viands,  and  garnished  with  every  dehcious 
delicacy,   and   beautiful    device,  that   taste   could 
yield !      This    scene   suddenly  changed,  and    he 
found  himself  in   the  midst  of  maniacs  !     Com- 
miserating the  unhappy  situation  of  these  wretch- 
ed beings,  all  of  whom  were  wandering  at  liberty 
in    the   corridors   of  the    extensive    building,   he 
thought   their   loss   of  reason,   and  their   present 
miseries,   proceeded   mainly  from   poverty,   which 
had  been  suddenly  brought  upon  them  ;  and  then 
his  fitful   mind  instantly  transferred  him  and  the 
maniacs  from  these  corridors,  into  the  presence  of 
the  sumptuous  halls! — and  he  saw  them  struggling, 
from  hunger,  to  gain  admission  into  these  gorgeous 
apartments — the  feast  was  all  before  them,  but  the 
lofty  glass  doors,  through  which  they  viewed   it, 
were  barred  against  them ;   and  they,  with  him- 
self,  were  soon  excluded  even  from  this  delight- 
ful vision,  and  were  cast  out  into  the  court,  there 
to  mingle  with  the  famished  dogs,  and  with  the 
men  who  contended  for  the  miserable  bones,  and 
with  those  who  were  maddened  with  thirst,  and 
were  licking  the  exhausted  cups  of  their  last  drops! 
The   scene    once   more  changed ;  and  from  the 
open  corridors,  Marcellus  passed  from  cell  to  cell, 
the  doors  of  which  yielded  for  his  entrance.     Pan- 
demonium, with  its  unmitigated  horrors,  seemed 
there  assembled — many  in  those  cells  were  furious, 
and  bound  with  chains — others   laughed  unnatu- 
rally and  incessantly — some  wept  without  intermis- 
sion— some  lacerated  their  bodies,  others  mourned 
in  silence.     At  length,  in  a  more  loathsome  cell 
26 


298  DREAMING. 

than  any,  a  lovely  female,  apparently  the  victim 
of  sullen  and  quiet  despair,  arrested  his  attention  ! 
At  the  first  sight  of  Marcellus,  she  hastily  turned 
away,  and  then  reclined  her  sickened  limbs  upon 
a  miserable  bed  of  straw.  Curiosity  being  keenly 
awakened,  Marcellus  entered  the  cell ;  the  female, 
in  tattered  garments,  and  with  one  side  of  her  face 
blooming  in  youthful  health  and  freshness,  whilst 
the  other  was  haggard,  sallow,  and  emaciated,  gave 
him  a  hurried  glance,  then  suddenly  hid  her  head 
in  the  folds  of  her  mantle,  and  perseveringly  refused 
reply  to  any  of  his  anxious  inquiries  ! 

The  singularity  of  a  face  that  on  the  one  side 
beamed  with  happiness  and  beauty,  and  on  the 
other  bore  so  many  ugly  lineaments  of  extreme 
misery,  stimulated  his  curiosity  to  the  highest  pitch. 
Turning  round  to  one  of  the  keepers,  and  with  a 
heart  throbbing  with  sensibility,  he  inquired  into 
the  cause  of  her  deplorable  condition,  and  espe- 
cially as  to  the  phenomenon  which  so  strangely 
blended  the  manifestations  of  health  and  joy,  with 
those  of  disease  and  of  grief! 

'The  villany  of  a  husband,'  replied  the  keeper, 
'lost  to  every  sentiment  of  virtue  and  of  love,  re- 
duced himself  and  family  from  affluence  to  penury, 
from  bliss  to  misery — beggared  his  children,  and 
drove  to  desperation  and  to  madness  this  virtuous 
and  most  lovely  of  women.  In  her  angelic  face, 
on  its  right  side,  you  may  see  her  as  she  was  at 
nineteen;  and  on  the  other  side,  what  she  has 
come  to  at  twenty-seven,  through  the  gambling 
dissipations  of  her  now  cruel,  but  once  virtuous 


DREAMING.  299 

husband.'  At  this  instant,  the  unfortunate  female 
raised  her  head,  and  stood  unveiled  before  them. 
Great  God !  what  were  the  feelings,  what  the 
agonies  of  Marcellus,  when,  in  this  wretched  ma- 
niac, he  recognized  his  adored,  his  much  injured 
Parthenia  !  All  description  fails — his  feelings  were 
burning  lava — and  he  instantly  awoke !  In  the 
ecstasy  of  joy,  and  of  renovated  love,  he  embraced 
his  wife,  overwhelmed  with  happiness  to  find  it  all 
a  dream  ! 

Marcellus  communicated  to  Parthenia  the  har- 
rowing scenes  he  had  just  witnessed  in  his  dream 
— and  solemnly  vowed  to  abjure  for  ever  his  late 
practices,  and  wholly  to  abandon  his  false  friends. 
This  he  has  done.  The  brightest  rays  of  happi- 
ness again  play  around  them — Parthenia's  health 
is  perfectly  restored,  and  the  shattered  remnants  of 
their  once  ample  fortune,  give  an  annual  increase, 
and  furnish  them  with  that  elegant  but  moderate 
competency,  which  secures,  to  the  virtuous,  un- 
mixed happiness. 


For  those  who  love  the  facts  of  philosophy,  bet- 
ter than  the  tales  of  a  rather  dull  fancy,  proceed  we 
now  to  the  residue  of  what  we  have  to  offer  con- 
cerning the  matter  in  hand.  Suffer  me  here  to 
premise,  however,  that  I  do  verily  opine,  an  author, 
of  all  others,  is  the  most  apt  to  be  an  egregious 
ignoramus  as  to  what  may,  or  may  not,  please  his 
readers.  It  is  nearly,  if  not  quite  in)possible,  for 
any  reader  whose  likings  run  into  some  particular 


300  DREAMING. 

channels,  to  imagine  that  when  he  himself  turns 
author,  his  readers  will  take  no  interest  in  the 
objects  of  his  long  cherished  tastes  :  and  yet  so  it 
may  well  be.  1  do  remember  one  of  the  black- 
letter  volumes,  of  the  days  when  alchemy,  and 
judicial  astrology  flourished,  speaks  thuswise  of 
dreaming — the  author  nothing  doubting  but  that 
his  readers  would  wholly  agree  with  him.  'It's  no 
wonder,'  saith  he,  'if  a  discourse  on  such  sublime 
subjects  as  the  entertainment  of  our  souls  during 
the  body's  nocturnal  repose,  and  when  they  have 
shaken  otf,  for  a  time,  the  fetters  of  the  senses, 
and  are  upon  the  wing  in  the  suburbs  of  eternity, 
it  is  no  wonder,  I  say,  if  a  discourse  on  the  secret 
intercourse  of  spirits  with  humanity,  and  on  the 
wonderful  communications  of  Deity  to  his  ser- 
vants, in  dreams  and  in  visions,  should  be  both 

acceptable,  and  in  some  kind  useful.' May  I 

be  permitted,  courteous  reader !  so  to  think  of  mine? 
My  misgivings  are  great,  in  these  our  days  of 
stimulating  literary  condiments,  at  a  time,  too, 
when  an  author  is  no  author  at  all,  unless  he  be 
the  parent  of  many  volumes  of  most  exciting  tales, 
and  permitting  moreover,  two-thirds  of  them  to  be 
sacrificed  to  the  enrichment  of  a  hungry,  selfish, 
unintellectual,  monopolizing,  set  of  publishers  and 
booksellers,  before  the  poor  inditer  of  these  fictions 
is  permitted  to  pocket  a  single  carlino  of  emolu- 
ment!— I  say  my  misgivings  are,  indeed,  great, 
as  to  whether  any  of  these  notes  will  please 
either  readers,  or  book-venders — and,  in  particular, 
whether  the  subject  of  dreams,  in  our  degenerate 


DREAMING.  301 

day,  will  have  sufficient  interest  to  arrest  their 
now  morbid,  and  mawkish  attention — for,  doubt- 
less, Miss  Papilla  and  her  intellectual  companion, 
Whiskerandos,  will  contemn  all  of  these  Notes  as 
quite  too  philosophical ! 

But,  I  have  told  thee  in  my  preface,  that  I  have 
embarked  on  this  troublous  sea  of  authorship,  and 
that  I  mean  to  steer  my  frail  bark,  by  my  own 
small  rudder,  and  by  my  own  careful  observations 
upon  the  literary  atmosphere,  regardless  of  the 
calms,  and  of  the  storms,  from  whatever  source 
they  come,  during  my  perilous  voyage — hoping, 
withal,  for  more  favourable  breezes  hereafter,  and 
for  more  hospitable  ports,  than  are  to  be  looked 
for,  either  in  these  our  days,  or  in  these  our  mer- 
cantile regions. 

This  digression  ended,  I  find  that  the  musty 
old  author,  just  quoted  by  me,  whose  name  I  can- 
not give,  as  he  disdained  all  fame,  present  or  post- 
humous, and  therefore  revealed  it  not,  has  seen 
fit  to  arrange  dreams  into  three  cardinal  divisions, 
viz:   SiDERiAL,  Spiritual,  and  Complexional. 

To  the  first  class,  or  those  dreams  which  he  attri- 
butes to  siderial  influences,  he  gives  seven  orders, 
as  the  dreamers  are  supposed  to  be  more  or  less 
affected  by  the  then  known  seven  planets,  includ- 
ing the  sun  and  moon,  and  excluding  our  earth. 
Mercurial  dreams  are  confused,  fanciful,  and  ram- 
bling— Lunar  are  fickle,  lying  and  foolish — those 
of  Vejiics  are  instinct  with  love,  and  the  amiable 
aff'ections — Martial  dreams  are  fierce  and  war- 
26* 


302  DREAMING. 

like — Jovial  are  mild,  grave,  and  thoughtful — 
Saturnine  are  sad,  dull,  and  frightful ;  and  lastly, 
Solar  dreams  are  gorgeous,  varied,  replete  with 
worldly  honours,  and  all  the  fruits  of  riches! 

But  these  siderial  dreams,  as  well  as  the  science 
of  astrology,  (to  which  they  are  so  closely  allied) 
are  now  consigned  by  the  enlightenment  of  our 
age,  to  merited  contempt  and  oblivion. 

As  to  the  second  class,  or  spirittial  dreams,  they 
are  referred  by  this  author  to  the  four  sources  of 
Deity — of  good  angels — evil  angels — and  of  the 
prince  of  darkness : — in  respect  to  all  of  which, 
it  may  be  remarked  tliat  most  good  men,  of  all 
ages,  have  believed  that  Deity  has  sometimes 
vouchsafed  thus  to  commune  with  the  soul  of 
man — and,  as  to  the  doctrine  of  diabolical  influ- 
ences on  man,  whether  when  asleep  or  awake,  he, 
as  I  presume,  is  a  bold  man  who  would  utterly 
repudiate  them. 

And  lastly,  as  to  the  class  of  coniplexional 
dreams,  they  are  referred  to  the  theory  of  the  live 
temperaments  of  man,  in  respect  to  the  general 
truth  of  which  theory,  there  can  be  little  doubt, 
nor  can  it  be  questioned  but  that  dreams  often 
originate  in,  and  are  often  greatly  varied  by  these 
temperaments. 

The  ancients  had  a  strange  fancy  in  regard  to 
the  apparitions  that  may  appear  to  us,  either  in 
dreams,  or  in  day  visions.  They  supposed  that 
all  ghosts  or  apparitions  are  material,  but  com- 
posed of  extremely  attenuated  elements — that  the 
soul   of  man,  during  sleep,  or  wakefulness^  can 


liREAMING.  303 

never  perceive  a  pure  spirit;  and  hence  that 
angels,  the  devils,  his  imps,  and  finally,  all  imma- 
terial beings,  are  obliged  to  clothe  themselves  in 
these  refined  bodies,  that  they  may  become  visible 
to  man,  even  in  his  dreams.  They  further  sup- 
posed that  all  human  beings  have  two  bodies ;  the 
one  the  outward,  gross,  and  visible  tenement;  the 
other  the  elemental,  thin,  and  demi-spiritual  body, 
proceeding  fi-om  what,  in  after  times,  was  called  the 
radical  moisture ;  and  that  all  of  the  beings  seen 
in  our  dreams,  are  these  refined  bodies,  either  of 
departed  beings,  or  of  such  from  among  the  spiri- 
tual world,  as  are  commissioned  to  assume  these 
forms.  It  was  also  supposed  by  them,  that  when 
in  our  dreams  and  day  visions,  we  see  these  spec- 
tres, it  is  never  with  our  gross  and  visible  eyes,  but 
that  our  communion  with  them  is  always  through 
the  medium  of  the  thin,  and  elementary  body — 
and  finally,  that  as  long  as  the  radical  moisture 
remains  existent  after  death,  so  long  may  the  appa- 
ritions or  ghosts  of  that  body  exist,  and  be  visible 
in  this  world — and  that,  as  this  moisture  gradually 
diminishes,  by  time  or  otherwise,  so  will  the  ghost 
become  weaker,  and  weaker,  until  it  vanishes 
wholly,  by  becoming  a  pure  spirit! 

On  the  basis  of  these  notions  was  it,  that  the 
ancients  so  often  consumed  their  dead  bodies  to 
ashes,  that  they  might  at  once,  so  effectually  de- 
stroy the  radical  moisture,  as  to  give  peace  to  souls, 
and  prevent  their  assuming  the  thin  covering,  and 
thus  molest  the  living  by  their  apparitions !  But 
the  Egyptians,  of  course,  saw,  and  now  see  more 


304  DREAMING. 

ghosts  than  other  people,  since  they  preserved  their 
defunct  bodies,  with  such  special  care :  and  the 
spectres  of  the  twenty  miUions  of  mummies,  sup- 
posed to  be  still  existent  in  the  cemeteries  of 
Thebes,  and  of  other  cities  in  that  ancient  land, 
will  enable  our  travellers  to  encounter  a  ghost,  or  a 
phalanx  of  them,  ad  libitum  ! 

The  superstitious  practice,  also,  which  is  some- 
times used,  of  compelling  one  charged  with  mur- 
der, to  touch  the  wounds  of  the  deceased,  origi- 
nates in  this  theory — for,  in  such  case,  the  notion 
was  that  certain  effluvia  hover  around  the  body  for 
a  time ;  and  that  by  uniting  together,  they  com- 
pose those  spectra  that  wander  among  the  ceno- 
taphs, the  dormitories  of  the  dead,  and  the  like 
places !  These,  though  generally  invisible  from 
their  extreme  tenuity,  are  supposed  to  become  visi- 
ble to  the  murderer,  the  instant  he  touclies  the 
wounds — because,  then,  the  effluvia  with  an  ex- 
treme energy,  issue  from  the  sally-ports  of  a  lin- 
gering, but  wholly  unseen  life,  unite  into  form,  and 
fly,  at  once,  into  the  murderer's  face  ! 

In  like  manner,  as  'tis  said,  dogs,  and  other  ani- 
mals, possess  the  faculty  denied  to  man,  of  recog- 
nizing by  these  spectra,  the  murderer  of  a  master, 
or  of  a  friend.  To  the  same  idea,  likewise,  we 
may  refer  the  fact,  that  persons  of  gross  and  wick- 
ed appetites  are  peculiarly  subject  to  demoniacal 
possession;  by  which  is  to  be  understood,  not 
merely  that  they  have  many  bad  thoughts,  and 
evil  propensities,  but  that  the  Evil  One,  or  his 
messengers,  take  actual  possession  of  them.     And 


DREAMING.  305 

this  is  supposed  to  arise  from  their  demi-spiritual 
bodies  becoming  themselves  grosser  and  grosser, 
through   their  own  wickedness — opening  thereby 
to   the   foul-fiend  an  entrance,  by   which    he   is 
enabled  to  exercise  a  more  direct  and  intense  com- 
munion with  the  soul — and  hence  spring  the  many 
horrid  sights,  the  agonizing  dreams,  the  swarms  of 
vain  and  torturing  thoughts,  of  shocking  desires, 
of  blasphemous  imaginations,  and  the  apparently 
resistless  crowd  of  enmities  against  God,  in  spite  of 
the  severe  conflicts,  which  the  same  souls  are  con- 
scious of,  as  being  waged  against  these  demons, 
by  spirits  of  an  opposite  nature  !    If  the  Catade- 
mons,  or  lovers   of  evil  angels,  be  denominated 
'Legion,'  because  of  their  vast  number,  so,  like- 
wise, are  there  myriads  of  protecting  or  good  ones  ; 
and  hence,  in  our  dreams,  and  also  in  our  waking 
hours,  all  life  seems  but  a  perpetual  warfare  be- 
tween the  Spirits  of  Evil,  and  the  Spirits  of  Good — 
between  Ebony  and  Topaz  ! 

It  was  a  matter  of  no  small  consequence,  in 
times  of  yore,  to  know  the  insignia  of  their  ghost- 
ships;  and  especially,  to  be  able  to  distinguish 
with  certainty,  the  guardian  spirit  from  the  evil 
one.  And  though  the  outward  and  visible  signs  of 
these  gossamer  beings,  were  often  no  very  sure  cri- 
terions,  yet  all  seemed  to  agree  on  two,  as  infalli- 
ble,— to  wit,  that  a  good  angel  never  assumed  the 
shape  of  a  woman — and  that  a  bearded  angel  was 
ever  to  be  accounted  as  an  evil  one!  Woman  is 
the  'weaker  vessel;'  she,  moreover,  'brought  death 
into  the  world,  and  all  our  woe;'  and  yet,  as  she 


306  DREAMING. 

has  behaved  herself  since  that  time  tolerably  well, 
and  certainly  far  better  than  man  hath  done,  it 
would  seem  a  strange  slur  upon  her  now,  to  sup- 
pose she  can  never  assume  the  office  and  garb  of  a 
good  angel !  and,  as  for  the  reproach  cast  thereby 
upon  beards,  they  have  been  very  generally  held  in 
high  veneration,  though  it  must  be  admitted  that 
the  face  without  one,  appears  milder,  and  that 
some  modern  ones  have  very  diabolical   aspects ! 

The  Greeks  and  Romans,  in  their  most  polished 
times,  were  generally  bearded;  and  when  one  of 
the  popes,  in  after  times,  shaved  his  off,  the  Greek 
church  regarded  it  as  a  great  apostacy  !  We  also 
find  the  prophets  and  apostles  uniformly  bearded 
by  the  painters;  and  though  Aulus  Gellius  states 
that  criminals  were  never  permitted  to  appear  with- 
out beards,  the  weight  of  authority  is  certainly  on 
the  side  of  their  being  very  generally  received  as 
an  honourable  appendage.  I  am,  therefore,  at  a 
loss  for  a  valid  reason  as  to  this  belief  that  a  good 
angel  was  never  found  in  woman's  lovely  form — or 
in  that  of  a  man  with  a  graceful,  flowing  beard — 
mats  en  voild,  plus  quHl  ti'en  faut.  These,  how- 
ever, are  deep  subjects,  in  which,  though  there 
have  been  many  wild  imaginations,  still,  he  is  no 
keen  observer  of  the  human  heart  and  mind,  who 
would  cast  them  wholly  off  as  worthless  dross. 

I  have  several  times  alluded  to  the  extreme  rapi- 
dity of  thought  in  dreams,  the  infinite  variety  and 
combinations  of  their  events,  and  how,  in  them, 
the  transactions  of  a  life,  are  compressed  into  the 
brief  minutes  of  a  short  sleep  !    Mr.  Addison  illus- 


DREAMING.  307 

trates  this  idea  in  so  beautiful  a  manner,  that  I  do 
not  hesitate  to  insert  it,  as  follows  : — 'In  the  Koran, 
it  is  said  that  the  angel  Gabriel  took  Mahomet  out 
of  his  bed  one  morning,  to  give  him  a  sight  of  all 
things  in  the  seven  heavens,  in  paradise  and  in 
hell,  which  the  prophet  took  a  distant  view  of; 
and,  after  having  held  ninety  thousand  conferences 
with  God,  was  brought  back  again  to  his  bed.  All 
this  was  transacted  in  so  small  a  space  of  time, 
that  Mahomet,  on  his  return,  found  his  bed  still 
warm,  and  took  up  an  earthen  pitcher  which  was 
thrown  down  at  the  very  instant  that  the  angel 
Gabriel  carried  him  away,  before  the  water  was  all 
spilt ! 

'A  sultan  of  Egypt,  who  was  an  infidel,  used  to 
laugh  at  this  circumstance  in  Mahomet's  life,  as 
what  was  altogether  impossible  and  absurd  ;  but, 
conversing  one  day  with  a  great  doctor  in  the  law, 
who  had  the  gift  of  working  miracles,  the  doctor 
told  him  he  would  quickly  convince  him  of  the 
truth  of  this  passage  in  the  Koran,  if  he  would 
consent  to  do  what  he  would  desire  of  him.  Upon 
this,  the  sultan  was  directed  to  place  himself  by  a 
huge  tub  of  water,  which  he  did  accordingly ;  and 
as  he  stood  by  the  tub  amidst  a  circle  of  his  great 
men,  the  holy  man  bid  him  plunge  his  head  into 
the  water,  and  draw  it  up  again.  The  king  accor- 
dingly thrust  his  head  into  the  water,  and  at  the 
same  time  found  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  moun- 
tain on  the  sea  shore !  The  king  set  himself  to 
think  on  proper  methods  for  getting  a  livelihood  in 
this    strange    country.      Accordingly,  he    applied 


308  DREAMING. 

himself  to  some  people  whom  he  saw  at  work  in  a 
neighbouring  wood.  Those  people  conducted  him 
to  a  town  that  stood  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
wood,  where,  after  some  adventures,  he  married  a 
woman  of  great  beauty  and  fortune.  He  lived  with 
this  woman  so  long,  that  he  had  by  her  seven  sons, 
and  seven  daughters.  He  was  afterwards  reduced 
to  great  want,  and  forced  to  think  of  plying  in  the 
streets  as  a  porter  for  his  livelihood.  One  day,  as 
he  was  walking  alone  by  the  sea  side,  being  seized 
with  many  melancholy  reflections  upon  his  former 
and  his  present  state  of  life,  which  had  raised  a  fit 
of  devotion  in  him,  he  threw  off  his  clothes,  with 
a  design  to  wash  himself,  according  to  the  custom 
of  the  Mahometans,  before  he  said  his  prayers. 

'After  his  first  plunge  into  the  sea,  he  no  sooner 
raised  his  head  above  the  water,  but  he  found  him- 
self standing  beside  the  tub,  with  the  great  men 
of  his  court  about  him,  and  the  holy  man  at  his 
side !  He  immediately  upbraided  his  teacher  for 
having  sent  him  on  such  a  course  of  adventures, 
and  betrayed  him  into  so  long  a  state  of  misery 
and  servitude,  but  was  wonderfully  surprised  when 
he  heard  that  the  state  he  talked  of  was  only  a 
dream;  that  he  had  not  stirred  from  the  place 
where  he  then  stood ;  that  he  had  only  dipped  his 
head  into  the  water,  and  immediately  taken  it  out 
again !  The  Mahometan  doctor  took  this  occasion 
of  instructing  the  sultan,  that  nothing  was  impos- 
sible with  God;  that  he,  with  whom  a  thousand 
years  are  but  as  one  day,  can,  if  he  pleases,  make 


DREAMING.  309 

a  single  day,  nay,  a  single  moment  appear  to  any 
of  his  creatures  as  a  thousand  years.' 

From  the  foregoing  tale  we  may  learn  that  an 
whole  age,  nay,  even  that  of  our  world,  may  be  as 
a  single  moment  with  all  spiritual  existences ;  or 
that  the  eternity  which  comes  after  death,  may  be 
without  any  true  note  of  time,  myriads  of  years 
being  but  as  a  moment,  and  moments,  on  the  con- 
trary, filled  with  the  events  of  ages. 

Another  remarkable  feature  in  dreams,  and  one 
nearly  identical  with  the  preceding,  is,  that  they 
generally  relate  to  things  as  present;  they  deal 
little  with  ihQpast,  or  with  the  future!  all  is  a  per- 
petual 710W  ! — for,  if  we  are  in  the  presence  of  Noah 
and  the  prophets,  or  of  Caesar  and  Bonaparte,  they 
are  all  our  cotemporaries,  and  we  their  associates, 
with  no  consciousness  of  .the  past,  and  of  course, 
with  no  surprise  at  the  strange  anachronisms ! 
This  fact  is  full  of  intimations  of  the  soul's  pro- 
bable stale  when  wholly  severed  from  the  body ;  it 
harmonizes  with  all  the  marvels  recorded  of  dream- 
ing, and  shows  that  sleep  is  the  connecting  link 
between  life  and  death  !  If  the  soul  be,  indeed,  a 
ray  from  the  source  of  eternal  power,  it  seems, 
during  sleep,  to  be  an  emanation,  that  delights  in 
freedom,  and  revels  in  its  partial  exemption  from 
the  toils  of  place  and  of  time.  In  this  state  it  am- 
bles, as  it  were,  on  the  very  confines  of  eternity,  or 
swims  in  the  vast  abyss,  reminded  of  its  mortal 
alliance,  (like  the  falcon  to  its  master,)  only  by  the 
slender  leash  that  binds  it. 
27 


310  DREAMING. 

This  enlargement  of  the  privilege  of  the  soul 
during  sleep,  tliough  small  compared  with  that 
which  follows  death,  is  yet  sufficient  to  place  be- 
fore it  very  many  of  its  past  actions,  as  things 
essentially  present ;  and  hence  it  is  that  minds, 
insensible  to  remorse  when  awake,  are  sometimes 
suddenly  stimulated  to  deep  repentance,  by  the 
lively  presentation  during  sleep  of  the  events  of 
their  life — events  that  had  been  nearly  erased  from 
their  memory  !  But  how  greatly  more  astounded 
must  the  soul  be,  after  the  total  dissolution  of  its 
connection  with  time,  to  find  itself  at  once  in  the 
presence  of  all  the  sinful  actions  and  thoughts  of 
its  worldly  existence,  all  of  them  naked  and  bare, 
and  the  whole  concentrated  in  a  clearly  visible, 
fearful,  and  perpetual  noio ;  and  this,  too,  with  no 
one  oblivious  appliance,  present,  or  hoped  for,  that 
can  mitigate,  in  the  least,  the  loathsome  sight ! — 
for,  as  to  all  men,  '■their  works  do  follow  them^ 
none,  no  not  one  of  them,  is  missing,  but  all  are 
actually  and  eternally  before  them  ! 

I  know  that  flimsy  thinkers,  have  ever  been  dis- 
posed to  treat  with  ridicule,  the  least  idea  that  sleep 
and  dreams,  (both  so  natural)  can  ever  shadow 
forth  the  things  of  an  after  life.  Philosophers  of 
old  have  rightly  said  that  superstition  is  odious  to 
the  gods;  and  equally  so  is  unmeaning  incredulity. 
But  that  sensible  belief,  which  takes  a  middle 
course,  and  which,  by  a  wise  tnoral  alchymy^ 
extracts  from  the  numerous  facts  of  dreaming, 
some  wholesome  lessons,  is  an  homage  which  a 
well  ordered  mind  should  willingly  pay  to  Him 


DREAMING.  311 

who  causeth  the  soul  to  think^  and  the  heart  to 
/ee/,  no  less  during  our  nocturnal,  than  our  daily 
existence  ;  and  such  a  sensible  belief  will  find  that 
philosophy  and  religion  are  equally  consentaneous 
to  the  idea  that  sleep  and  dreams  are  sometimes 
designed  to  teach  man,  more  intimately,  the  nature 
of  his  soul ;  and  that  at  all  times,  they  have  been 
occasionally  used  by  Deity  as  the  vehicle  of  useful 
presages,  appertaining  either  to  this,  or  to  the  other 
world. 

If  then,  in  dreams,  we  perceive  that  the  soul  is 
very  apt  to  deal  with  all  things  as  if  present,  and  to 
take  no  note  of  tiine ;  and  if  we  likewise  find  that 
in  nearly  all  prophecy,  the  matters  are  dealt  with  as 
if  actuallij  present,  the  inference  is  a  rational  one 
that  the  soul  of  the  dreamer,  as  well  as  of  the  pro- 
phet, has  been,  for  the  time,  partially  absolved  from 
corporeal  ties,  and  that  it  wanders  more  at  large 
into  that  state  of  existence  where  matter,  place, 
and  time  are  unknown.  Moses,  no  doubt,  saw  as 
a  visible  now,  the  past,  present,  and  future  !  He 
saw  the  transactions  of  the  creation — of  the  fall  of 
man — of  the  flood,  as  things  present  to  him  !  So 
Christ  is  said  to  be  a  Lamb  ^slain''  from  the  foun- 
dation of  the  world,  and  yet  the  actual  event  occur- 
red more  than  four  thousand  years  after — it  being 
seen  by  the  prophet,  eight  hundred  years  before  it 
took  place  in  time  I  When  Isaiah  says  ^Babxjlon 
is  fallen,''  he  contemplates  it  as  sl  presc7it  event, 
and  when  the  same  prophet  speaks  of  Cyrus,  one 
hundred  and  forty  years  before  the  temple  was 
destroyed,  and  fully  two  hundred  years  before  his 


312  DREAMING. 

birth,  he  deals  with  this  founder  of  the  Persian 
monarchy  as  if  then  in  being,  and  with  the  events 
to  be  accomplished  by  him,  as  if  then  existent ! 
The  Scriptures  are  full  of  such  expressions — and 
how  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  for  a  prophet,  in  the 
act  of  his  holy  vocation,  must  necessarily  be  inde- 
pendent of,  and,  so  to  speak,  out  of  time;  and  must 
see  as  a  spirit,  which  deals  not  with  time.  Hence 
arises  the  general  idea  that  the  dreams  of  the  aged 
are  more  veracious — and,  in  correspondence  with 
this  opinion  is  the  equally  usual  one,  that  the 
opinions  of  those  who  are  on  the  eve  of  dissolu- 
tion, are  likewise  more  prophetic ;  and  still  further, 
the  very  current  belief  among  the  moderns,  as 
well  as  the  ancients,  that  morning  dreams  are  the 
somnia  vera, — the  true  dreams. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  fact,  that  the 
thoughts  of  our  sleep  exert  a  larger  influence  on 
those  of  our  wakefulness,  than  is  generally  sup- 
posed— and  one  very  remarkable  fact  little  noted 
by  metaphysicians,  proves  this.  The  fact  to  which 
I  allude  is  not  a  mere  mental  idiosyncracy,  but 
is  truly  a  feature  in  the  human  mind.  The  phe- 
nomenon is  thus  mentioned  by  Baron  Smith :  'In 
connection  with  the  phenomena  of  memory,  may 
I  be  here  permitted  to  take  notice  of  a  certain 
mystery  or  marvel  which  has  occasionally  pre- 
sented itself  to  me,  and  in  voucher  of  the  exis- 
tence of  which  I  have  the  experience  of  others,  in 
addition  to  my  own?  I  mean  that  strange  impres- 
sion, which  will  occasionally  come  with  unex- 
pected suddenness  on  the  mind,  that  the  scene 


DREAMING.  313 

now  passing,  and  in  which  we  share,  is  one 
which,  in  the  very  words,  with  the  same  persons, 
and  with  the  same  feeUngs,  we  had  accurately 
rehearsed  we  know  not  where  before !  It  is  the 
more  extraordinary  of  those  sensations,  (and  is  one 
which  will  occur,)  wherein  what  is  going  forward, 
there  is  nothing  remarkable  or  of  particular  inte- 
rest involved.  While  we  speak,  our  former  words 
are  ringing  in  our  ears,  and  the  sentences  which 
we  form  are  the  faint  echoes  of  a  conversation  had 
in  olden  time!  Our  conscious  thoughts,  too,  as 
they  rise,  seem  to  whisper  to  each  other  that  this 
is  not  their  first  appearance  in  this  place.  In 
short,  all  that  is  now  before  us,  seems  the  ap- 
parition of  a  dialogue  long  departed — the  spectral 
resurrection  of  scenes  and  transactions  long  gone 
by.  Or  we  may  be  said,  by  the  momentary  gleam 
of  a  flash  of  reminiscence,  to  be  reviewing,  in  a 
mysterious  mirror,  the  dark  reflections  of  times 
past,  and  living  over,  in  minute  and  shadowy 
detail,  a  duplicate  of  the  incidents  of  some  pre- 
existent  state !' 

But  this  unconscious  indebtedness,  of  our  active 
and  vigilant  life,  to  the  forgotten  scenes  and 
thoughts  of  our  sleeping  hours,  \vas  probably  first 
alluded  to,  at  least  in  more  modern  times,  by  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  in  his  Guy  Mannering — for  so 
Dugald  Stewart  thinks.  That  great  mental  phi- 
losopher gives  the  credit  to  his  highly  gifted 
countryman,  of  having  first  revealed  to  our  dis- 
tinct notice,  this  strange  reminiscence.  The  pas- 
sage in  the  novel,  is  that  in  which  Bertram  ex- 
27* 


314  DREAMING. 

presses  his  mysterious  feelings  at  viewing  the 
castle  of  Eilangowan,  from  which  he  had  been 
stolen  when  quite  a  child — and  is  as  follows. 
'Why  is  it  that  some  scenes  awaken  thoughts, 
■which  belong  as  it  were  to  dreams  of  early  and 
shadowy  recollection,  such  as  my  old  Bramin 
Moonshie  would  have  ascribed  to  a  state  of  pre- 
vious existence?  Are  they  the  visions  of  our 
sleep  that  float  confusedly  in  our  memory,  and 
are  recalled  by  the  appearance  of  such  real  objects 
as  in.  any  respect  correspond  to  the  phantoms  they 
presented  to  our  imagination  ?  How  often  do  we 
find  ourselves  in  society  which  we  have  never 
before  met,  and  yet  feel  impressed  with  a  myste- 
rious and  ill-defined  consciousness  that  neither  the 
scene,  the  speakers,  nor  the  subject  is  entirely 
new;  nay,  feel  as  if  we  could  anticipate  that  part 
of  the  conversation  which  has  not  yet  taken  place?' 

We  have  reason  then,  to  believe,  that  the  lost 
thoughts  of  remote  periods  of  our  life — those  of 
our  earliest  infancy — those  of  our  dreams,  still 
float  vaguely  in  our  minds;  and,  that  they  aflect, 
more  or  less,  the  current  of  our  wakeful  existence, 
often  imparting  to  it  dim  and  confused  remem- 
brances, which,  in  weak  minds  beget  superstition, 
and  which  in  strong  ones,  never  fail  to  create 
some  surprise. 

On  the  whole,  it  is  most  certain,  as  one  of  the 
black-letter  writers  hath  it,  that  the  'Soul  of  Man 
is  a  Mystery,  breathed  out  of  the  grand  Mystery — 
a  Ray  of  the  Eternal  Sun — which,  when  absolved 
from  the  pollutions  of  the  flesh,  is  then  capable  of 


THOUGHTS    ON   A   PLAY   OR   TWO.  315 

communicating  with  good  spirits,  and  of  being 
united  to  its  divine  original.'  This  being  certainly 
so,  it  follows  that,  whilst  it  is  the  province  of  wis- 
dom to  steer  clear  of  the  follies  of  those  who  would 
be  learned  beyond  what  is  given  to  man,  it  is 
equally  a  duly  to  seek  for  light  wherever  it  may  be 
found. 

He,  therefore,  approves  himself  wise,  who  neither 
reposes  on  all  that  hath  been  said  of  dreams,  nor 
scornfully  rejects  the  whole,  as  savouring  too 
much  of  religion — of  superstition— and  of  over- 
curious  learning. 


NOTE    XX. THOUGHTS    ON    A    PLAY    OR    TWO. 

'THE  ROBBERS.' 

Few  things  so  simultaneously  tend  to  form  and 
evince  the  manners  and  genius  of  a  people,  as  their 
public  and  accepted  amusements.  Whilst  the  pre- 
vailing taste  is  indicated  by  the  encouragement 
accorded  to  public  spectacles,  these  have  powerful 
and  pervading  influence  on  the  general  and  indivi- 
dual mind,  by  no  means  unworthy  the  attention,  not 
only  of  the  moralist,  but  of  the  statesman. 

It  is  not  my  wish  to  be  enrolled  in  the  catalogue 
of  disputants  either  for  or  against  the  moral,  intel- 
lectual, and  political  influence  of  the  drama,  for  I 
think  the  dilliculty  has  been  formed  by  the  honest 
but  contracted  and  overheated  zeal  of  the  enemies 
of  the  buskin  on  the  one  hand,  and  tlie  indiscrimi- 
nating  and  morbid  attachment  of  its  admirers  on 
the  other.     The  sound  judgment  and  truth  in  this 


316  THOUGHTS   ON    A   PLAY   OR   TWO. 

as  well  as  most  other  matters  lie,  as  I  conceive,  in 
the  mean — since  the  drama  is  a  good  which  contains 
within  its  very  hearts  core  the  seeds  of  its  own 
corruption  and  dissolution.  It  is  a  good,  which  if 
wisely  used,  might  be  extensively  and  permanently 
beneficial ;  but  its  excellencies  amble  on  the  very 
confines  of  vice  and  licentiousness,  its  virtues  as- 
sociate too  much  with  their  opposite  vices,  and  its 
collateral  ill  effects  frequently  more  than  counter- 
poise its  direct  and  legitimate  tendencies.  The 
drama  in  its  purity  would  be  a  school  of  virtue. 
Sound  morals  conveyed  through  the  medium  of 
interesting  incidents,  enforced  and  radicated  by  the 
charms  of  eloquence  and  oratory,  heightened  and 
located  by  scenic  representation,  cannot  fail  to 
make  impressions  deep  and  lasting,  for 

'What  we  hear 
With  weaker  passion  will  affect  the  heart, 
Than  when  the  faithful  eije  beholds  the  part.' 

From  the  history  of  nations  we  may  infer  that  a 
love  for  the  drama  is  a  dictate  of  nature,  for  no 
people  have  been  found  so  rude  as  not  to  have 
fostered  this  species  of  divertissement. 

The  passion  for  the  drama  has  its  foundation  in 
our  inherent  fondness  for  novelty  and  fiction ;  or 
in  the  more  legitimate  and  lively  interest  which  is 
taken  in  faithful  delineations  of  the  natural  and 
affecting  incidents  of  real  life.  The  social  and 
moral  sympathies  never  fail  to  be  excited,  and  the 
heart  and  understanding  to  be  interested  and  im- 
proved, in  proportion  as  the  incidents  and  language 
of  the  drama  approximate  those  of  common  life ; 


THOUGHTS    ON    A   PLAY   OR  TWO.  317 

and  nothing  but  a  diseased  judgment,  a  vitiated 
taste,  or  a  corrupt  heart  can  give  a  preference  to 
the  exhibition  of  murders,  assassinations,  poison- 
ino-s,  parricides,  fratricides,  ghosts,  wizards,  witch- 
es, hobgoblins,  fiends,  bandits,  robbers,  &.c.  with  all 
their  horrid  concomitants,  to  the  natural  and  gra- 
dual development  of  those  incidents  which  as  they 
belong  to  humanity,  and  do  occur,  are  calculated  to 
excite  our  sympathies ;  and  as  they  but  seldom 
happen  are  sufficiently  novel  to  rivet  our  attention, 
and  agreeably  agitate  our  social  feelings. 

It  may  be  advanced  as  a  physical  truth,  that 
whatever  gently  exercises  the  mind  or  body,  with- 
out fatigue,  affords  a  pleasing  sensation.  The 
drama,  therefore,  if  one  of  the  objects  be  pleasure, 
should  never  do  violence  to  the  moral  feelings, 
should  never  overstep  the  modesty  of  nature. 
Probability,  or,  at  least,  possibility,  should  be  kept 
in  view.  The  imagination  should  not  be  forcibly 
exercised,  but  we  should 

'Hold  the  golden  mean, 
Keep  the  end  in  view,  and  follow  nature.' 

If  Utility  be  an  object,  contemplated  by  the 
drama,  nature  and  truth  should  never  be  forsaken 
for  the  wild  and  airy  fictions  of  the  imagination. 
But  whilst  we  entertain  this  opinion,  we  conceive 
that  all  the  faculties  of  the  soul  are  reciprocally 
dependent,  and  impart  strength  and  vigour  to  each 
other.  The  operations  of  the  judgment  are  no 
doubt  quickened  and  assisted  by  the  imagination, 
and  nothing  can  be  more  unphilosophical  than  the 


318  THOUGHTS    ON    A    PLAY   OR   TWO.  • 

doctrine  of  a  state  of  hostility  between  the  various 
faculties  of  the  mind.  We  are  therefore,  not  un- 
friendly to  the  imagination,  but  only  to  its  deli- 
riums ;  for  this  faculty,  of  all  others,  needs  restraint, 
as  it  is  most  liable  to  deterioration,  and  when  once 
diseased,  becomes  dangerous  to  its  associates,  and  is 
often  found  their  tyrant  and  destroyer.  We  could 
therefore  wish  that 'Moi/icr  Goose,^  ^Brazen  Mask,^ 
'  Valentine  and  Orson,^ '  Ci7iderella,''  ^Hercules  and 
Omphale,''  '  The  Flying  Dutchman^  '■Mazeppa^ 
'■Aladdin^  and  a  hundred  other  melo  dramas, 
should  less  frequently  appear.  So,  likewise,  that 
all  those  tragedies  in  which  poisonings  and  parri- 
cides, robberies,  seductions,  horrid  vices,  and  all 
the  black  catalogue  of  the  worst  of  human  atroci- 
ties crowd  in  thick  succession  upon  us,  and  depict 
our  species  as  fiends  principally  intent  on  each 
other's  misery  and  destruction — should  never  be 
exhibited.  In  the  representation  of  these  kind  of 
scenes,  every  legitimate  object  of  the  drama  is 
abandoned;  for,  we  suppose,  that  no  other  object 
would  be  avowed  but  utility  and  pleasure.  Man 
never  improves  by  presenting  his  vices  in  gigantic 
stature.  The  mitid,  in  such  case,  is  too  much 
occupied  to  permit  the  heart  to  feel,  and  the  de- 
formity and  unnatural  bulk  of  the  vice  is  such 
that  the  mind  itself  rejects  it  as  a  fiction.  So, 
also,  to  a  mind  endued  with  any  reason,  delinea- 
tions of  this  description,  afford  no  pleasure;  or,  at 
least,  the  pain  to  a  feeling  heart,  more  than  coun- 
terpoises the  agreeable  emotions;  or,  perhaps,  the 


THOUGHTS   ON   A   PLAY  OR  TWO.  319 

most  which  can  be  accorded  to  them,  is  an  alterna- 
tion of  pleasurable,  and  very  painful  sensations. 
But  if.  these  kinds  of  representation  alford  little 
or  no  pleasure  to  rational  and  feeling  minds,  it 
may,  perhaps,  be  admitted,  that  a  considerable  por- 
tion of  an  audience  have  neither  much  reason  nor 
feeling  I  If  this  be  the  case,  it  affords  an  addi- 
tional motive  why  the  stage  should  be  chastened ; 
why  its  corruptions  and  impurities,  its  obscenities 
and  bad  taste,  should  undergo  a  radical  reform. 
The  drama,  then,  is  a  good  thing,  much  and  con- 
stantly abused,  and  I  cannot  but  lament  that  an 
institution  so  eminently  calculated  to  foster  and 
disseminate  virtue,  should  so  frequently  stray  from 
this  salutary  object,  by  the  enactment  of  plays 
which  shock  every  moral  feeling,  suffuse  the  cheek 
of  modesty  with  overwhelming  blushes,  represent 
man  as  a  monster  of  iniquity,  render  vice  trium- 
phant in  the  very  act  of  vice,  clothe  depravity  with 
the  habiliments  of  high-minded  honour — and  con- 
nect with  it  neutralizing  virtues,  that  the  character 
may  thus  find  by  stealth,  a  passport  into  our  affec- 
tions ;  treat  the  presence  and  the  name  of  Deity 
with  irreverence;  ascribe  io  fate  and  io  blind  neces- 
sity, what  is  the  result  of  a  base  heart,  and  of  (he 
conduct  of  3i  free  agent ;  make  love  paramount  and 
triumphant  over  every  virtue  which  graces  the 
more  pure  and  tender  sex ;  place  on  the  lips  of  a 
young,  and  lovely  woman,  sentiments  at  all  times 
shocking,  but  peculiarly  so  when  uttered  at  the 
very  moment  of  resigning  her  soul  into  the  hands 
of  her  Creator! — and  yet  all  this,  and  much  more 


320  THOUGHTS    ON   A  PLAY   OR   TWO. 

can  be  said  of  that  abandoned^  detestable^  wicked 
and  incongruous  play,  called  '  The  Robbers.'' 

What  can  be  the  motive  for  the  frequent  repeti- 
tion of  this  sacrilegious  and  horrid  play,  we  have 
at  all  times  been  at  a  loss  to  imagine.      Utiliti/  is 
entirely  out  of  the  question ;  pleasure,  as  we  con- 
ceive, equally  so.    We  know  that  there  is  a  certain 
anomalous  principle  in  our  nature  which  occasions 
us  to  take  pleasure  in  the  contemplation  of  scenes 
of  affliction,  in  which  the  spectator  would  ever 
desire  to  avoid  a  participation.     But  this  principle 
will  not  bear  us  through  this  shocking  play,  for  it 
is  a  principle  modified  by  another,  which  has  been 
before  mentioned,  viz:  that  pleasure  whether  men- 
tal or  sensual,  is  the  result  of  a  gentle  exercise 
(without  fatigue)  of  the   organs  of  the  body,  or 
faculties  of  the  mind;  so  that  the  pleasure  derived 
from  the  exhibition  of  the  affliction  of  others,  is 
immediately  superseded  by  pain,  when  the  imagi- 
nation, sympathy  and  moral   feelings  are  so  vio- 
lently acted  upon,  as  they  unquestionably  are  in 
the  play  of  The  Robbers. 

Few  have  attended  the  exhibition  of  this  tra- 
gedy, without  some  shock  to  their  feelings,  and  a 
transient  resolution  never  again  to  see  it;  for  that 
pleasure  which  is  occasioned  by  scenes  of  afflic- 
tion, (as  a  sensible  writer  observes)  is  to  be  ascribed 
to  a  compound  feeling,  arising  from  the  five  sources 
of  curiosity — sympathy — a  degree  of  mental  exer- 
tion— the  idea  of  our  own  security — and  from  the 
interesting  situations  which  occasionally  happen  in 
real  life ;  but  pain  must  predominate  when  nothing 


THOUGHTS    ON   A    PLAY   OR   TWO.  321 

but  human  vice  and  depravity  are  presented,  and 
every  generous,  honourable,  and  virtuous  principle 
is  violated. 

Legitimate  tragedy,  according  to  Aristotle,  and 
more  modern  judicious  authors,  through  the  me- 
dium of  embellished  language  and  a  degree  of  terror 
and  pity,  must  induce  a  refinement  and  melioration 
of  our  passions.  That  the  'Robbers,''  is  calculated 
either  to  excite  even  pity,  or  to  refine  and  melio- 
rate the  passions  is  what  we  utterly  deny,  for 
there  is  no  character  in  the  piece,  (except  perhaps 
the  Count  de  Moor)  that  is  not  very  objectionable, 
and  the  sentiments,  with  a  few  bright  exceptions, 
can  excite  nothing  but  alternate  terror  and  disgust. 

Schiller,  the  author  of  this  celebrated  piece,  has 
frequently  been  compared  by  his  warm  admirers 
to  Shakspeare,  and  this  play  of  the  Robbers  to 
Richard  III.  We  are  very  favourably  impressed 
with  the  genius  of  Schiller,  and  have  no  hesitation 
in  admitting  that  he  has  given  us,  in  this  very 
piece,  considerable  evidences  of  it.  Our  objections 
to  the  play  are  chiefly  of  a  moral  nature,  we  con- 
sider it  destitute  of  utility,  and  so  artfully  contrived 
and  ingeniously  wrought  up,  as  to  be  extremely 
pernicious  in  its  tendency. 

Neither  time  nor  inclination  admit  of  a  critical 
and  minute  analysis  of  the  merits  and  demerits  of 
this  play,  but  if  any  good  may  result  from  our 
animadversions,  it  will  be  necessary  to  point  out 
somewhat  definitively,  though  briefly,  our  objec- 
tions. 

28 


322  THOUGHTS    ON    A    PLAY    OR    TWO. 

The  pivot  on  which  the  incidents  of  this  piece 
rest,  is  the  doctrine  of  fatahty.  Tins,  as  is  ob- 
served by  the  translator,  'pervades  the  whole  piece, 
and  influences  the  conduct  of  the  chief  agents  in 
the  drama.'  It  requires  but  little  knowledge  of  the 
human  mind,  and  certainly  no  philosophical  acu- 
men to  discern  the  pernicious  results  of  the  admis- 
sion of  that  doctrine  which  ascribes  a  fixity  and 
unalterable  nature  to  the  course  of  human  events; 
which  makes  man  a  mere  machine,  acting  in  irre- 
versible subordination  to  the  agency  of  a  superior 
power;  which  ascribes  to  virtue  and  vice  neither 
merit  nor  demerit,  but  attributes  to  the  agent  a 
passive  subjection  to  irresistible  impulses.  This 
doctrine  is  the  veil  which  is  designed  to  cover  the 
black  and  heinous  iniquity  of  Charles  de  Moor. 
It  is  the  [flattermg  unction^  which  is  to  soften  the 
pains  of  a  harrowed  conscience — it  is  the  source  of 
pity  and  commiseration  for  Charles's  sufferings  ; 
and  here,  then,  is  the  great  evil  resulting  from  the 
admission  of  the  principle. 

IBut  the  friends  of  Schiller  say,  that  this  fatalism 
did  not  weaken  his  moral  sensibility  or  his  con- 
sciousness of  the  itnputability  of  his  crimes  !  We 
admit  that  it  did  not  entirely  extinguish  humanity  ; 
nature  would  occasionally  dawn  through  the  dark 
covering  of  his  crimes,  and  remorse  take  entire 
possession  of  his  soul.  But  still,  we  find  him  to 
rest  his  crimes  on  the  impious,  but  to  him  some- 
what soothing  belief,  that  he  was  the  'instrument 
of  vengeance  in  the  hands  of  the  Almighty  for  the 
punishment  of  others.'    The  government  and  laws 


THOUGHTS    ON    A    PLAY    OR   TWO.  323 

of  his  country  are  to  sleep,  whilst  he,  the  guiltiest 
wretch  of  all,  presumed  to  judge  and  punish  guilt! 

'Now  hear  me,  sir,'  (says  this  honourable  villain  to  the 
commissary  of  his  injured  country)  'hear  Moor  the  cap- 
tain of  these  incendiai'ies.  It  is  true  I  have  assassinated 
a  count  of  the  empire.  It  is  true  I  have  burnt  and 
plundered  the  church  of  the  Dominicans.  It  is  true  I 
have  set  fire  to  your  bigoted  town,  and  blown  up  your 
powder  magazine.  But  I  have  done  more  than  all  that. 
Look  here,  (holding  out  his  hand)  at  these  four  rings  of 
value  !  This  ruby  I  drew  from  the  finger  of  a  minister 
whom  I  cut  down  at  the  chase,  at  his  prince's  feet. 
He  had  built  his  fortune  on  the  miseries  of  his  fellow 
creatures,  and  his  elevation  was  marked  by  the  tears 
of  the  fatherless  and  the  widow.  This  diamond  I  took 
from  a  treasurer-general,  who  made  a  traflBc  of  offices  of 
trust,  and  sold  honours,  the  rewards  of  merit,  to  the 
highest  bidder.  This  camelion  I  wear  in  honour  of  a 
priest,  whom  I  dispatched  with  my  own  hand  for  his 
most  pious  and  passionate  lamentation  over  the  fall  of 
the  Inquisition.  I  could  expatiate  at  large,  sir,  on  the 
history  of  these  rings,  did  I  not  already  repent  that  I 
have  wasted  words  on  a  man  unworthy  to  hear  me.' 

But  Moor,  as  we  shall  see,  did  not  even  restrict 
himself  to  this  abandoned  principle  of  taking  the 
sword  of  justice  into  his  own  hand. 

Admitting  that  the  doctrine  of  fatalism,  as  incul- 
cated in  this  play,  does  not  extinguish  conscience 
and  remorse,  it  is  still  highly  deleterious ;  for  if 
once  a  villain  conceives  himself  damned  past  all 
redemption,  where  is  the  restraint  upon  his  fiend- 
like passions :  where  is  the  boundary  to  his  atro- 
cities?    Besides  this,  the  principle  of  fatality  is 


324  THOUGHTS    ON    A    PLAY    OR    TWO. 

generally  found  to  accompany  vice,  not  virtue. 
The  fatalist  does  not  conceive  himself  destined  to 
act  the  part  of  innocence  and  unblemished  virtue. 
But  sufficient  has  been  said  of  this  dangerous 
feature  of  the  play. 

The  next  which  may  perhaps  be  worthy  atten- 
tion, is  Charles  de  Moor's  soliloquy  on  suicide  in 
the  forest  scene  of  the  fourth  act.  After  the  com- 
mission of  crimes  at  which  nature  recoils,  and 
the  genial  current  in  our  veins  should  pause, 
Moor  and  his  fiend-like  associates  stretch  them- 
selves on  the  ground,  in  the  forest  of  Bohemia, 
to  rest  their  wearied  limbs.  Though  night's  sable 
curtain  hung  o'er  the  wcrH,  and  all  without  was 
tranquil,  sleep  could  find  no  welcome,  peace  no 
entrance  into  Charles'  bosom ;  all  his  black  enor- 
mities stared  him  in  the  face,  and  self-slaughter 
appeared,  to  his  distracted  soul,  the  only  antidote ! 

Moor. — 'Good  night'  (to  his  companions)  'forever — 
a  long,  long  night!    on  which  no   morrow  e'er  shall 
dawn.     Think  you  that  I  will  tremble  !  never,  never. — 
Shadows  of  the  dead,  the  murdered,  rise !   no  joint  of 
me  shall  quake.     Your  dying  agonies,  your  black  and 
strangled  visage,  your  gaping  wounds — these  are  but 
links  of  that  eternal  chain  of  destiny  wliich  Avound  itself 
around  me  from  my  birth — which  hung  perhaps  upon 
the    humours  of  my  nurse,  my  father's  temperament, 
or  my   mother's  blood.     Why  did   the   great  artifiter 
form,  Uke  Perillus,  this  monster  whose  burning  entrails 
yearn  for  human  flesh?   (draws  a  pistol.)     This  little 
tube  unites  eternity  to  time !     This  key  will  shut  the 
prison  door  of  Ufe,  and  open  wide  the  regions  of  futu- 
rity.    Tell  me,  oh  tell !  to  what  unknown,  what  stranger 


THOUGHTS    ON   A    PLAY   OR    TWO.  325 

coast  thou    shalt  conduct  me !     The  soul   recoils  and 
shrinks  with  terror  from  that  awful  thought ;   while  busy 
fancy  fills  the   scene   with   horrid  phantoms — No,  no ! 
man  must  not  hesitate.     Be  what  thou  will,  thou  Avorld 
without  a   name,   so   that  this  self  remains ;   this  self 
within.     For  aU  that  is  external  what  has  it  of  reality 
beyond    that  form    and   colour  which    the    mind   itself 
bestows? — I  am  myself  my  heaven  or  my  hell,'  (look- 
ing towards  the  horizon)  'If  he  should  give  me  a  new 
earth,   some  blasted  region  banished  from  his  sight — 
where  I  alone  inhabited,   companion  of  eternal  night 
and  silence,  this  mind,  this  all  creative  brain,  would 
people   the   hideous  void  with   its  own   images — would 
fill  the   vast   space    with   sweet   chimera — forms,   that 
all  eternity  were  scarce  sufficient  to  unravel  them. — 
But  perhaps  it  is  by  ever-varying  scenes  of  misery  in 
this  ill  world,  that  step,  by  step,  he  leads  me  to  an- 
nihilation.    Oh  that  it  were  possible  to  stop  the  current 
of  that  after  life,  as  easy  as  to  break  the  thread  of  this ! 
thou  may'st  reduce  me  into  nothing — but  of  this  liberty 
I  cannot  be   deprived,'  (cocks  the  pistol,  raises  it,  and 
suddenly   stops.)      'And    shall    I    then    rush   to    death 
through  a  slavish  dread  of  living  here  in  torment !     No  ; 
I  will  bear  it  all,  and  brave  the  malice  of  my  fate,'  (puts 
up    the    pistol.)      'JMy  jn-ide   shall   conquer   sufferance. 
Let  the  destiny  of  Moor  be  accomplished.' 

Moor  then  declined  self-slaughter  only  because 
it  argued  in  him  'a  slavish  dread  of  living  here 
in  torment.' 

Another  prominent  defect  in  the  moral  of  this 
piece  is  the  paramount  influence  which  is  ascribed 
to  love.     It  was  wisely  intended  by  Him  who  im- 
planted this  principle  in  our  nature,  that  it  should 
28* 


326  THOUGHTS    ON    A   PLAY   OR   TWO. 

be  strong ;  that  as  the  source  of  most  of  our  joys 
it  should  meliorate  the  heart,  soften  it  to  the  in- 
fluence of  virtuous  sentiments,  chasten  it  from  all 
selfish  motives;  and,  that  amidst  the  sad  vicissitudes 
of  life,  it  should  invigorate  the  mind  to  steady  and 
honourable  perseverance  in  warding  off  from  the 
possessor  of  our  affections  the  causes  of  infelicity. 
But  love  should  never  triumph  over  virtue,  never 
extinguish  from  the  soul  that  paramount  obliga- 
tion which  is  due  to  God  and  to  society.  But  we 
find  that  Amelia,  after  a  full  development  of  her 
lover's  vices,  that  he  was  a  savage  murderer,  and 
the  chief  of  a  more  savage  band,  rushes,  neverthe- 
less, into  his  arms,  exclaiming,  'murderer! — fiend! 
whatever  thou  art — angel  to  me  !  I  will  not  let  thee 
go.'  And  the  concluding  scene  is  still  more  ob- 
jectionable, for  she  dies  with  a  shocking  sentiment 
expiring  on  her  lips  ! 

Moor. — 'On  deeds  like  these  we  pause  not  'till  they 
are  done.    I'll  think  on  this — hereafter!'  (stabs  Amelia.) 

Robbers. — 'Bravo,  most  noble  captain !  thy  honour  is 
discharged — thou  Prince  of  Robbers!' 

Moor. — 'Now  she  is  mine,  she's  mine  forever — or, 
that  hereafter  is  the  dream  of  fools !  I  have  foiled  my 
destiny — in  spite  of  fate  I  have  brought  home  my  bride, 
and  with  this  sword  have  sealed  our  wedding  vows.' 
(To  Amelia  with  tenderness)  'was  it  not  sweet,  my 
Amelia,  to  die  thus  by  thy  bridegroom's  hand  ?' 

Amelia. — (Stretching  out  her  hand  to  him)  'Oh  most 
sweet!' 

Here  love  is  made  to  triumph  over  death,  the 
grave,  eternity,  and  God;  and  without  any  com- 


THOUGHTS   ON    A  PLAY  OR  TWO.  327 

pensative  motive,  or  principle  whatever;  and  is, 
therefore,  as  destitute  of  philosophy,  as  of  virtue. 
We  will  notice  a  few  more  vices  in  this  play, 
and  then  proceed  to  a  brief  consideration  of  the 
character  of  some  of  the  prominent  personages. 
In  this  drama  we  have  an  instance  of  cool  and 
aggravated  parricide.  We  have  presented  to  us 
the  shocking  spectacle  of  a  brother  executing  dead- 
ly vengeance  on  his  brother ;  of  an  aged  and  doat- 
ing  parent  suddenly  expiring  from  the  unexpected 
disclosure  of  his  son's  enormities ;  of  a  murderer 
assuming  to  himself  an  attribute  of  Deity;  and 
we  see  an  Earldom  bequeathed  as  the  recompense 
of  successful  villany  ! 

Moor. — (taking  the  hands  of  Kozinski  and  Switzer, 
and  addressing  himself  to  Switzer.)  'These  hands  I 
have  deep  imbrued  in  blood — that  be  my  offence  not 
thine!  here  with  this  grasp  I  take  what  is  mine  own. 
Now  Switzer,  thou  art  pure !  (raises  their  hands  to 
heaven  with  fervour)  'Father  of  heaven  here  I  re- 
store them ;  they  will  be  more  fervently  thy  own  than 
those  who  never  fell.'  An  Earldom  becomes  mine  this 
day  by  heritage,  a  rich  domain  on  which  no  malediction 
rests — share  it  between  you :  become  good  men  :  good 
citizens :  And  if  for  ten  whom  I  have  destroyed,  you 
make  but  one  man  blest,  my  soul  may  yet  be  saved !' 

Let  me  now  proceed  to  note  a  slight  sketch  of 
the  principal  characters  in  this  tragedy. 

As  the  exhibition  of  vice,  in  her  most  hideous 
mien,  appears  to  have  been  the  author's  favourite 
design,  we  will  consider  Francis,  and  not  Charles 
de  Moor,  as  the   hero  of  the  tale.      We  do  not 


328  THOUGHTS   ON   A    PLAY    OR  TWO. 

recollect  to  have  ever  met  with  a  more  perfect  and 
finished  character  in  abandoned  villany,  in  cool, 
ingenious,  artful,  systematic  wickedness  than  Fran- 
cis de  Moor.  In  this  07ie  character  we  have  an 
assemblage  of  all  that  is  cruel,  infamous,  relentless 
and  atrocious  in  the  human  heart.  No  other  than 
Schiller's  creative  imagination  could  have  formed 
such  a  monster — as  Francis  stands  before  us,  in 
his  soliloquy  at  the  commencement  of  the  second 
act. 

[Francis  de  Moo?-  alone  in  his  apartmeni.] 
Francis. — -'I've  lost  all  patience  with  these  doctors. 
An  old  man's  life  is  an  eternity.      Must  my  towering 
plans  creep  the  snail's  pace  of  a  dotard's  lingering  hours  ? 
Could  not  one  point  out  a  new  track  for  death  to  enter 
the  fort?     Kill  the  body  by  tearing  the  soul!     Ay,  that 
were  an  original  invention :  he  that  could  make  that  dis- 
covery were  a  second  Columbus  in  the  empire  of  death — 
think  on  that  Moor.     'Twere  an  art  worthy  to  have  thee 
for  its  inventor !     How  then  shall  we  begin  the  work  ? 
What  humble  emotion  would  have  the  force  to  break  at 
once  the  thread  of  life!    Rage?   No;  that  hungry  wolf 
surfeits  himself  and  regorges  his  meal.    Griefs.    That's  a 
worm  that  lingers  on  the  flesh,  and  mines  his  way  too 
slowlv!    Fearl   No;  hope  blunts  his  dart  and  v/iU  not 
let  him  strike  his  prey :    What  ?   Are  these  our  only  exe- 
cutioners ?  is  the  arsenal  of  death  so  soon  exhausted  ? 
hum,  hum !  (musing)  no  more  ?  ha !    I  have  it ;  terror 
is  the  word — terror!    reason,    religion,   hope — all  must 
give  way  before  this  giant, fiend;  and  then — should  he 
even  bear  the  shock — there's  more  behind — Anguish  of 
mind,  come  aid  the  imperfect  work ;  repentance,  gnaw- 
ing viper  of  the  soul — monster,  thou  dost  ruminate  thy 


THOUGHTS   ON  A   PLAY  OR  TWO.  329 

baneful  food,  and  thou  remorse,  that  livest  on  thy 
mother's  flesh,  and  was'nt  thine  own  inheritance :  and 
you,  even  you,  ye  blissful  years  o'er  past,  display  your 
charms  to  memory's  retrospect,  and  poison  with  your 
sweets  the  present  hour;  ye  scenes  oi future  bUss  com- 
bine to  wound — show  him  the  joys  of  paradise  before 
him,  and  hold  the  dazzUng  mirror  out  to  hope,  but  cheat 
his  feeble  grasp  !  Thus  let  me  play  my  battery  of  death — 
stroke  after  stroke  incessant — till  nature's  mound  is  bro- 
ken, and  the  whole  troop  of  furies  seize  the  soul,  and 
end  their  work  by  horror  and  despair;  triumphant 
thought! — So  now — the  plan's  my  own:  now  for  the 
work.' 

The  character  of  Francis  is  well  sustained,  and 
uniform  throughout  the  play.  But  the  delineation 
of  such  iniquity,  ripe  and  in  full  maturity  when 
first  presented  to  us,  can  be  productive  of  no  good. 
The  character  is  unnaturally  wicked  ;  but  if  natu- 
ral, let  us  remain  ignorant  of  it  as  long  as  possible; 
for  by  the  admission  of  such  characters,  the  drama 
familiarizes  us  with  them,  and  thereby  renders 
vice  less  odious.  Maximilian  de  Moor,  the  un- 
happy parent  of  this  noble  pair  of  brothers,  is  a 
very  neutral  character,  neither  formed  to  instruct, 
to  please,  nor  to  excite  even  pity.  He  evinces 
great  weakness  in  suffering  himself  to  be  duped 
by  the  artifices  of  his  son  Francis,  whose  charac- 
ter he  well  knew,  and  especially  as  they  were 
directed  against  a  favourite  and  beloved  son,  with 
whose  few  virtues  he  was  perfectly  acquainted. 
Here  also  we  find  a  parent's  infirmity  the  cause 
of  his  child's  desperate  depravity ! 


330  THOUGHTS    ON    A    PLAY    OR    TWO. 

In  the  character  of  Charles  de  Moor  we  find  a 
strange  assemblage  of  high-toned  honour,  and  lack 
of  principle,  of  filial  love,  and  filial  irreverence,  of 
misanthropy,  and  a  morbid  feeling  for  the  unme- 
rited suflerings  of  his  fellow'-subjects,  of  fatalism 
and  compunction,  of  genius  and  folly,  of  manly 
virtue,  and  deadly  vice  ?  But  that  complexity  of 
character,  that  wildness  and  romance,  that  elevated 
honour,  that  sickly  humanity,  that  dignified  cou- 
rage, and  that  brilliancy  of  mind  which  Charles 
possessed,  in  union  with  qualities  of  a  very  oppo- 
site nature,  are  what  render  him  so  dangerous. 
The  author  if  he  desired  to  fascinate  to  vice,  knew 
the  human  heart  too  well,  not  to  amalgamate  with 
iniquity,  some  of  the  luring,  brilliant  and  captivat- 
ing qualities  of  the  heart  and  mind.  Charles  may 
insinuate  himself  with  all  his  heavy  load  of  vice, 
into  our  affection,  but  Francis  is  too  glaringly 
deformed  by  sin  to  ever  claim  an  entrance.  That 
there  is  in  reality  this  dangerous  fascination  in  the 
character  of  Charles  there  can  be  but  little  doubt : 
for  its  influence  has  been  felt,  as  appears  by  the 
acknowledgment  of  the  translator  that  'the  eff"ects 
of  this  tragedy  were  so  powerful,  and  as  some 
thought  so  dangerous,  that  in  several  states  its 
representation  was  prohibited  by  the  legislature.' 
Why  then,  we  may  ask,  translate  and  dilfuse  it? 

We  are  likewise  informed  that  'after  the  repre- 
sentation of  this  tragedy  at  Fribourg,  a  large  par- 
ty of  the  youth  of  the  city,  among  whom  were 
the  sons  of  some  of  the  chief  nobility,  captivated 
by   the   grandeur    of    the    character    of   its    hero 


THOUGHTS    ON    A    PLAY    OR    TWO.  331 

(Charles  de  Moor)  agreed  to  form  a  band  like  his, 
in  the  forests  of  Bohemia ;  elected  a  yonng  noble- 
man for  their  chief,  and  pitched  on  a  beautiful 
young  lady  for  his  Amelia,  whom  they  were  to 
carry  off  from  her  parents'  house  to  accompany 
their  flight !  To  the  accomplishment  of  this 
design  they  had  bound  themselves  by  the  most 
tremendous  oaths ;  but  the  conspiracy  was  dis- 
covered, and  its  execution  prevented.'  And  in 
our  own  country,  we  regret  to  have  it  in  our 
power  to  say  that  we  have  heard  great  and  un- 
qualified expressions  of  admiration  of  the  charac- 
ter of  Charles  de  Moor ! 

Let  us  now  turn  from  the  view  of  so  much 
depravity,  and,  in  the  contemplation  of  the  beau- 
tiful Amelia,  endeavour  to  find  some  cheering  rays 
of  virtue  amidst  this,  hitherto,  general  and  imper- 
vious gloom  of  vice.  Here,  too,  alas!  we  are  dis- 
appointed !  Who  could  have  imagined  that  in  so 
fail',  so  lovelij  a  tenement,  aught  but  the  virtues, 
the  loves,  and  the  mental  graces  could  find  admis- 
sion? But  as  the  author  intended  to  present  us 
*  with  the  black  side  of  the  picture  of  humanity,  we 
must  content  ourselves,  and  view  Amelia's  charac- 
ter as  we  find  it. 

Never  was  Pope's  sentiment  that  'most  women 
have  no  character  at  all,'  more  strikingly  exempli- 
fied than  in  Amelia,  who  camelion-like,  changes 
with  the  varying  scenes,  and  in  the  space  of  a  feAV 
weeks  exhibits  a  variety  of  dispositions  very  irre- 
concilable with  each  other. 


332  THOUGHTS    ON    A    PLAY    OR   TWO. 

In  the  opening  scene  with  Francis,  she  appears 
to  us  in  the  character  of  a  masculine,  determined 
woman,  sensible  of  her  injuries,  resolute  and  able 
to  assert  them,  incensed  to  the  highest  degree,  and 
mature  for  vengeance. 

Amelia,  (surveying  Francis  with  a  long  look.)  'Is  it 
you  ?  You  here  !  whom  of  all  mankind  I  most  desired 
to  see.' 

Francis.  'Me  ?  is  it  possible  ;  me  of  all  mankind  !' 

Amelia.  'You  sir,  even  you.  I  have  hungered — I 
have  thirsted  for  the  sight  of  you.  Stay  I  conjure  you. 
Here  prisoner;  let  me  enjoy  my  highest  pleasure,  let  me 
curse  thee  to  thy  face.' 

Francis.  'I  love  thee,  Ameha— as  my  soul  I  love 
thee.' 

Amelia.  'Well,  if  you  love  me,  Can  you  refuse  me 
one  small  request  ? 

Francis.  'I  can  refuse  thee  nothing,  were  it  even  my 
hfe ' 

Amelia.  'Well  then,  I  ask  what  you  will  grant  with 
all  your  soul,  (proudly.)  I  ask  you  to  hate  me  ;  I 
should  die  for  shame,  if,  while  I  thought  on  Charles,  I 
could  for  a  moment  believe  thou  didst  not  hate  me. 
Give  thy  promise,  villain,  and  begone.' 

In  the  scene  in  which  she  next  appears,  Amelia 
is  subdued  by  love,  tenderly  yielding  to  its  endear- 
ing influences,  spreading  roses  on  the  bed,  whilst 
anxiously  watching  the  slumbers  of  the  father  of 
her  Charles ;  in  the  same  scene  she  again  becomes 
a  masculine  heroine,  and  then,  anon,  in  her  inter- 
view with  Herman,  she  is  the  woman  all,  artless, 
unsuspicious,  and  easily  deceived !  In  the  garden 
scene,  in  the  third  act,  during  her  interview  with 


THOUGHTS    ON   A    PLAY   OR  TWO.  333 

Francis,  we  find  her  serious,  prudent,  gentle,  vio- 
lent,  inalignant,  terrible  I 

Amelia.  See'st  thou  now,  villain  !  (drawing  his  sword 
from  him)  'what  I  can  do  ?  I  am  a  woman,  but  a 
Avoman  roused — dare  to  come  near  me,  and  this  steel — 
my  uncle's  spirit  shall  guide  it  to  thy  heart !  Fly  me 
this  instant.    ■ 

In  the  colloquy  she  holds  in  the  gallery,  with 
the  supposed  Count  de  Brand,  she  gravely  philoso- 
phizes on  the  fleeting  nature  of  earthly  bliss' — and 
evinces  to  the  Count  much  feeling,  when  he  draws 
her  attention  to  the  portrait  of  Charles,  then  before 
her  in  the  guise  of  Count  de  Brand.  She  reveals 
the  fact  of  her  lingering  love  for  him,  and  in  her 
soliloquy  a  few  minutes  after,  she  discovers  her 
incipient  love  for  this  Count  I  alternating  with  her 
resolution  that  'Charles  shall  ever  be  buried  in  her 
heart,  and  never  shall  human  being  fill  his  place  !' 
Schiller  would  say,  with  Shakspeare, 
^Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman,' 

for  though  Hejman  had  just  informed  her  that  her 
lover  still  lives,  in  her  next  interview  with  the 
Count  de  Brand,  she  loves  him  quite!  The  Count 
presses  with  ardour  her  lily  hand  to  his  lips,  and 
Amelia  false  to  Charles,  tells  him  'his  kisses  burn 
like  fire.'  The  Count  tenderly  embraces  her,  re- 
poses his  head  on  her  bosom,  she  blushes,  prays 
heaven  to  forgive  the  Count  for  making  her  re- 
creant to  Charles  !  She  then  gives  him  the  rijig 
that  Charles  had  presented  to  her,  and  exclaims 
'Oh  Charles !    now  strike  me  dead,  my  vows  are 

broken!    Charles  reveals   himself,   Amelia  faints 
29 


334  THOUGHTS    ON    A    PLAY    OR    TWO. 

and  the  curtain  drops!  Such  then  is  Amelia!  and 
a  more  worthless,  whimsical,  silly,  and  odious 
lady,  can  scarce  be  well  imagined — for  though 
there  be  weak  and  shameless  women,  the  infamous 
moral  inculcated  by  these  scenes  with  Amelia,  is  a 
gross  slander  on  the  sex,  and  is  no  true  picture  of 
what  would  be  likely  to  occur  with'  one  of  her 
rank,  and  with  one  so  tenderly  raised  as  she. 

Were  the  drama  uniformly  such  as  is  represented 
in  this  play,  it  were  better  to  put  the  torch  to  every 
theatre  in  the  land ;  for,  under  the  influences  of 
such  tuition,  our  young  women  would  scarce  know 
how  to  blush,  and  our  young  men  would  rather  take 
counsel  of  the  two  De  Moors,  than  of  the  Mentor 
of  a  Telemachus.     A  word  now  as  to  Coleridge's 

'REMORSE.' 
The  principal  merit  of  dramatic  poetry  is  derived 
from  its  subserviency  to  the  faithful,   impressive 
and  glowing  delineation  of  man  in  his  most  inte- 
resting relations.     Its  professed  object  is  the  melio- 
ration of  the  heart  and  affections,  by  the  presenta- 
tion (in  a  small  compass)  of  a  vast  variety  of  inci- 
dent, character  and  sentiment.     If  the  drama  be 
thus  contemplated  as  the  mirror  reflecting  at  one 
view  the  ever  varied  scenes  of  life;  as  the  polished 
speculum  in  which  we  discover,  with  certainty,  the 
resemblance  of  all  that  endears  man  to  man,  or 
that  weakens  or  severs  the  ties  which  unite  him, 
it  cannot  but  claim  an  ample  portion   of  public 
esteem  and  patronage. 

The  modern  drama,  like  the  illusions  of  sleep, 
regardless,  in  a  degree,  of  the  unities,  either  of 


THOUGHTS    ON    A   PLAY   OR   TWO.  335 

action,  time  or  place,  presents  to  our  view  a  com- 
plication of  incidents,  illustrative   of  the   direful 
consequences  resulting    from  the  unguarded  and 
licentious  indulgence  of  our  passions ;   places  be- 
fore us  in  all  their  native  loveliness,  the  charms  of 
virtue,  and  the  hideousness  of  vice ;  depicts  in  a 
bird^s-eye  view  that  which  in  real  life  is  often  dif- 
fused over  a  vast  expanse  of  time  and  space  ;  and 
represents  to  us  in  combination,  numerous  circum- 
stances from  which  the  reflecting  mind,  b)'  a  spe- 
cies of  moral  alchemy,  may  extract  useful  lessons. 
All  this  is  the  professed  and  legitimate  object  of 
the  drama ;  and  were  it  uniformly  adhered  to,  it 
Avould  be  a  powerful  means  of  virtuous  inculcation. 
To  this  concentration  of  action,  manners  and 
sentiments,  are  we  to  attribute  the  efficiency  of  the 
drama,  as  it  is  that  which  chiefly  distinguishes  it 
from  real  life.     The  drama  is  seldom  a  copy  from 
any  particular  view  in  life,  but  is  formed  by  a 
judicious  selection  and  happy  combination  in  one 
picture,  of  various  scenes,  so  mixed  and  artfully 
blended   as  to  be   productive  of  no   incongruity. 
But  whilst  this  liberty  of  picking  and  culling  from 
the   great   storehouse  of  life,  is  accorded   to   the 
dramatic  poet,  it  is  only  for  the  purpose  of  placing 
before  us,  in  harmonious  union,  things  which  have 
a  natural  congeniality.     Like  the  sculptor,  he  may 
take  the  eye  from  one,  the  arm  from  another,  the 
neck  from  a  third;  but  they  must  all  adjust  in  fit 
proportions  to  each  other,  else,  instead  of  a  paragon 
of  beauty,  we  should  have  naught  but  deformity. 
To  delineate  with  truth  and  vigour  a  variety  of 


336  THOUGHTS    ON    A    PLAY   OR   TWO. 

characters;  to  preserve  throughout  the  piece  that 
consistency  and  unity  of  character  which  makes 
them  upon  all  occasions,  act,  speak  and  think  as 
they  respectively  should  do,  and  to  blend  nume- 
rous incidents  so  as  to  have  an  obvious  relation  to 
each  other,  is  a  task  of  no  minor  difficulty,  and  is  a 
point  to  which  few,  very  few,  attain. 

It  is  manifest  that  the  above  remarks  rather  apply 
to  what  is  acknowledged  by  all  should  be  the  state 
of  the  drama,  than  to  what  has  in  reality,  generally 
been  attained  by  dramatic  writers. 

The  poetry  of  the  drama,  has,  by  universal  con- 
sent been  placed  in  the  scale  of  poetic  dignity,  next 
to  the  epic,  and  we  doubt  not  that  as  respects  utility, 
(were  it  what  it  could  be,)  it  would  be  entitled  to  a 
still  more  elevated  position.  But  the  epic  has  but 
seldom  been  degraded  either  to  the  base  purpose  of 
contaminating  morals,  disseminating  false  and  dan- 
gerous opinions  in  religion,  government  or  man- 
ners, or  to  the  hasty  acquisition  of  a  pittance  to 
answer  the  cravings  of  daily  want,  or  to  supply 
the  senseless  profusion  of  inconsiderate  spendthrifts. 
Melpomene  and  Thalia  have  been  invoked  by  any 
and  all  who  fancied  tliey  could  wield 

'A  pen, 
That  mighty  instrument  of  little  men,' 

and  this  art,  so  difficult  and  nice,  which  demands 
so  long  an  apprenticeship  to  observation  of  men 
and  manners,  and  which  requires  such  an  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  human  heart,  its  springs  and 
principles  of  action,  this  art  we  say  (as  Socrates 


THOUGHTS    OX   A  PLAY   OR   TWO.  337 

speaking  of  government  used  to  say)  is  in  the 
hands  of  a//,  every  one  presuming  himself  qualified 
for  the  undertaking!  Hence  it  is  that  we  not  un- 
frequently  see  the  apparent  phenomenon  of  au 
entire  audience  yielding  to  the  influence  of  Mojjius 
when  every  passion  of  the  human  mind  had  been 
arrayed  to  lead  the  heart  into  captivity.  Hence  it 
is  that  the  marvellous  and  impossible  have  super- 
seded the  natuird  and  possible.  Hence  it  is  that 
Dr.  Hurde  has  ventured  to  say  that  'the  sole  and 
contemptible  aim  of  comedy  is  to  excite  laughter.'' 
Hence  it  is  that  religion,  and  the  clergy,  decorum 
and  sound  morals,  government  and  orthodox  poli- 
tics have  all,  at  times,  endured  the  severity  of  dra- 
matic misrepresentation  and  caricature,  and  hence 
it  is  that  real  life  has  frequently,  by  a  shameful 
inversion,  taken  its  hue  and  character  from  the 
stage,  instead  of  the  drama  from  it. 

But  let  it  not  be  supposed  that  these  prefatory 
remarks  are  the  immediate  consequence  of  a  peru- 
sal or  attendance  upon  the  representation  of  Mr. 
Coleridge's 'jRcmorse,'  Far  from  it:  they  are  the 
result  of  a  general  contemplation  of  the  situation 
of  the  dramatic  art. 

The  piece  before  us  is  by  no  means  deficient  in 
dramatic  merit ;  on  the  contrary,  it  has  numerous 
beauties. 

As  action^  or  the  combination  of  incidents,  is  the 
very  soul  of  tragedy,  it  demands,  in  dramatic  cri- 
ticism, a  primary  attention.  The  manners^  or  that 
which  evolves  the  characters  of  the  agents ;  and 
the  se?iti7Jie7its,  by  which  their  opinions  and  inten- 
29^^ 


338  THOUGHTS    ON    A    PLAY    OR   TWO. 

tions  are  developed,  are  certainly  subordinate:  for 
neither  manners  nor  sentiments  are  essential  to 
tragedy;  or  rather  the  effect  is  produced  principally 
by  the  fable;  whereas,  if  the  incidents  of  this  fable 
be  unnatural  or  uninteresting,  no  substitute  can  be 
found  in  either  the  language,  sentiments  or  man- 
ners of  the  piece. 

In  the  constitution  of  a  good  play  it  is  not  only 
requisite  that  the  fable  or  action  should  be  simple, 
but  it  should  gradually  and  naturally  evolve  itself. 
The  attention  of  the  audience  should  not  be  put 
into  continued  requisition  to  unravel  the  tale,  and 
to  discover  the  connection  and  operation  of  the 
incidents  on  each  other.  By  simplicity  of  the  fable 
or  action  we  do  not  mean  to  exclude  a  variety  of 
incidents,  provided  they  all  have  an  evident  con- 
centration to  that  point  on  which  the  peripitia  or 
catastrophe  rests  ;  but  by  simplicity  we  mean  such 
a  unity  of  action,  though  composed  of  numerous 
incidents,  as  contains  no  collateral,  subordinate 
and  independent  events,  introduced  merely  as 
episodes.  In  this  respect  we  think  Mr.  Coleridge's 
'Remorse'  entitled  to  much  praise.  But  though 
the  action  or  fable  of  this  piece  be  simple,  it 
does  not,  as  we  conceive,  easily  and  gradually 
evolve  itself,  as  it  is  usually  represented.  But  this 
arises  from  the  injudicious  omission  (in  representa- 
tion) of  certain  passages,  rather  than  from  a  defect 
in  the  production  itself.  We  would  here  remark, 
that  the  practice  of  pruning  or  curtailing  is  gene- 
lally  rather  too  liberally  indulged  in,  either  for  the 


THOUGHTS    ON    A    PLAY    OR   TWO.  339 

reputation   of  the   dramatic   author,  or   the  eifect 
upon  the  audience. 

From  the  title  of  this  play  we  would  suppose 
that  its  author  principally  intended  to  exhibit  the 
sad  and  melancholy,  but  instructive  operation  of 
that  gall  of  a  wounded  and  lacerated  conscience 
remorse:  and  that  he  designed  to  place  before  us 
a  character  alternately  yielding  to  the  basest  pas- 
sions of  the  heart,  and  to  the  agonizing  effects  of 
remorse, — to  represent  one  in  whom 

'The  stronger  guilt  defeats  the  strong  intent, 
And  lilce  a  man  to  double  business  bound, 
Stands  in  pause  where  he  shall  first  begin. 
And  both  neglects.' 

But  we  do  not  find  precisely  this  character  in 
Ordonio. — Remorse  is  said  to  be  composed  of 
shame  from  a  sense  of  the  impropriety  of  past 
actions,  of  grief  for  the  effects  of  them,  of  pity 
for  those  who  suffer  by  them,  and  of  the  dread 
and  terror  of  punishment,  from  the  consciousness 
of  the  justly  provoked  resentment  of  all  rational 
creatures. 

In  Ordonio,  the  intended  murderer  of  his  bro- 
ther Alvar,  and  the  real  assassin  of  Issidore,  we 
find  a  man  corrupt  to  the  heart's  core,  capable  of 
any  crime  his  purposes  might  demand,  and  but 
seldom  yielding  to  the  subduing  influence  of  con- 
science and  remorse,  except  when  his  feelings  were 
particularly  excited  by  some  momentous  incident, 
or  very  pointed  remarks  of  those  around  him. 
When  these  occur  he  shows  the  raging  of  the 
storm  within.     A  brother's  murder  presses  sorely 


340  THOUGHTS   ON  A  PLAY    OR   TWO. 

on  him ;  but  sunk  thus  deep  in  guilt,  remorse  gives 
way,  and  new  crimes  suggest  themselves  as  neces- 
sary to  extricate  him  from  his  difficuhies.  Ordo- 
nio's  character  is  certainly  drawn  with  a  bold  pen- 
cil, but  would  have  been  much  better  had  he  occa- 
sionally evinced  uncalled  for,  or  in  the  way  of 
soliloquy  a  sense  of  the  deep  damnation  of  his 
guilt.  The  fact,  however,  is  that  Ordonio's  re- 
morse was  at  all  times  but  short  lived,  the  mere 
ephemera  of  a  moment,  called  into  being  by  the 
pressure  of  the  cloud  which  was  gradually  thick- 
ening around  him.  It  was  not  that  species  of 
remorse  which  effects  a  change  of  character  and 
life ;  it  had  rather  more  of  dread  and  teiror  in  its 
composition,  than  oi grief  and  pity.  True,  as  the 
author  says, 

'Remorse  is  as  the  heart,  in  which  it  grows  : 
If  that  be  gentle,  it  drops  balmy  dews 
Of  true  repentance,  but  if  proud  and  gloomy. 
It  is  a  poison  tree,  that  pierced  to  the  inmost 
Weeps  only  tears  of  poison!'  Act  I. — Scene  1. 

The  scene  of  this  drama  lies  in  Granada,  in  the 
reign  of  the  second  Philip,  just  after  the  edict  inhi- 
biting the  wearing  of  the  Morescoe  costume,  and 
at  the  close  of  these  bloody  wars  which  terminated 
the  empire  and  influence  of  the  Arabs  in  Spain. 
The  Marquis  Valdez,  a  venerable  and  worthy  old 
gentleman,  had  two  sons,  Alvar  and  Ordonio. 
Alvar,  the  elder,  graced  by  every  manly  and  en- 
dearing virtue,  tenderly  loved  Teresa,  an  orphan 
heiress   who   lived    under  the    protection   of  his 


THOUGHTS   ON   A   PLAY    OR  TWO.  341 

father-,  and  his  attachment  was  ardently  recipro- 
cated. 

Ordonio,  in  whose  heart  every  species  of  vice, 
seemed  to  find  its  genial  soil,  viewed  with  malig- 
nant dislike  his  brother's  superiority,  and  envied 
him  the  happiness  he  enjoyed  in  the  affections  of 
the  lovely  Teresa. 

This  unnatural  brother,  conceiving  that  Teresa 
might  be  his,  if  Alvar  were  but  removed,  formed 
the  shocking  design  of  murdering  him,  through 
the  instrumentality  of  Issidore,  a  Morescoe  chief- 
tain, who  was  kept  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  Alvar 
was   Ordonio's    brother.      Alvar,   in   his   defence 
'■fought  valiantly,'^  both   Issidore  and   his  accom- 
plices, and  finally  escaped.     After  an  absence  of 
several  years,  in  which  he  endured  imprisonments 
and  toils,  he  returns  to  his  native  land,  and  visits 
the  scenes  of  his  former  happiness,  with  his  adored 
Teresa.     During  Alvar's  absence,  the  aged  Valdez, 
deceived   by  the  arts  and  hypocrisy  of  Ordonio, 
who  had  persuaded  him  that  Alvar  had  been  cap- 
tured within  his  own  sight  by  an  Algerine  pirate, 
and  had  subsequently  perished  in  a  storm,  used 
much  entreaty  with  Teresa  to    forget  Alvar,  and 
bestow  her  heart  and   hand  on  his  virtuous  and 
worthy  brother  Ordonio. 

Unsuccessful  in  his  legitimate  endeavours  to 
secure  the  affections  of  Teresa,  Ordonio  had  resort 
to  stratagem.  Availing  himself  of  the  supersti- 
tions of  the  times,  he  called  the  arts  of  sorcery  to 
his  aid,  in  order  to  assure  Teresa  of  Alvar's  dcatli, 
and  thereby  to  reconcile  lier  to  his  wishes.     Alvar 


342  THOUGHTS   ON   A  PLAY   OR   TAVO. 

who  lived  in  disguise,  and  had  gained  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  sorcerer,  was  employed  by  Ordonio  for 
this  very  purpose.  Alvar,  however,  so  arranged 
his  wizard  plans,  as  to  discover  to  Valdez  and 
Teresa  in  the  presence  of  Ordonio,  that  he  had 
fallen  by  the  hand  of  an  assassin,  and  had  not 
perished  in  a  storm.  Ordonio's  veracity,  thus 
called  in  question,  together  with  his  incautious 
agitation  create  suspicions.  He  precipitately  leaves 
them,  suspecting  Issidore  as  the  author  of  this  con- 
trivance, and  that  he  had  revealed  his  secret  to  the 
sorcerer.  Alvar  is  immediately  hastened  to  a  dun- 
geon by  the  familiars  of  the  inquisition  for  'foul 
sorcery,'  and  Ordonio  invites  Issidore  to  a  cave, 
claiming  his  protection  against  the  arm  of  danger. 
Ordonio  there  murders  Issidore,  and  thence  pro- 
ceeds to  the  dungeon  with  a  view  of  despatching 
the  sorcerer,  and  thus  to  rid  himself  of  those  to 
whom  alone  his  secret  was  known. 

Teresa  had  gained  admittance  into  the  dungeon 
a  few  minutes  before  Ordonio's  entrance.  Alvar 
discovers  himself  to  Teresa,  and  a  most  tender  and 
affecting  interview  ensues.  On  Ordonio's  appear- 
ance Teresa  secretes  herself.  Here  a  deep  feeling 
colloquy  follows  between  these  brothers,  and  at 
the  instant  as  Ordonio  raises  his  dagger  to  the  sor- 
cerer's breast,  Teresa  rushes  out,  '■Ordonio I  its  thy 
brother.^  Here  the  catastrophe  commences.  Hor- 
ror, anguish  of  mind,  and  remorse,  in  full  array, 
present  themself  to  the  distressed,  tortured  Ordo- 
nio. Self  murder  is  hailed  as  the  only  relief;  but 
the  foul  deed  was  prevented  by  the  generous  and 


THE    ADVANTAGES    OF   IMPUDENCE.  343 

amiable  Alvar,  who  yet  loved  his  brother,  and 
would  have  saved  his  life  and  ^honour,''  had  not  at 
this  moment  the  distracted  Ahadra,  the  wife  of  the 
murdered  Issidore,  rushed  in  and  stabbed  Ordonio. 
Here  the  curtain  drops,  leaving  us  under  the  pleas- 
ing prospect  of  Alvar's  union  with  Teresa,  and 
their  becoming  the  solace  and  comfort  of  their 
aged  father. 

Alvar's  uniformly  amiable  character,  his  forgive- 
ness of  the  many  wrongs  he  had  sustained  from 
his  brother,  and  his  tender  and  honourable  feelings 
in  the  highly  interesting  scene  with  him  in  the 
dungeon,  is  contrasted,  with  a  master  hand,  with 
the  malignity  and  vice  of  Ordonio.  Alvar  is  re- 
stored to  Teresa  and  happiness,  at  the  moment  in 
which  Ordonio  meets  that  fate  which  even  in  this 
world  very  generally  attends  those  who  stray  far 
into  the  very  paths  of  vice. 

'Hence  learn  what  blessings  wait  on  virtuous  deeds, 
And  though  a  late,  a  sure  reward  succeeds.' 


3^> 


NOTE  XXI. THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  IMPUDENCE. 

The  lives  of  some  men,  from  youth  to  old  age 
illustrate  so  forcibly  the  advantages  of  Impudence, 
that  I  am  disposed,  with  Menander,  to  rank  it 
among  the  greatest  of  deities  ;  and,  from  my  inner 
soul  to  lament  that  I  have  ever  blushed,  and  that 
nature  had  not  given  me  even  more  than  the  as 
frontis  triplex.  Moreover,  when  I  do  remember 
that  Holy  Writ  hath  declared  'the  race  is  not  to 
the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong,'  I  naturally 


344       THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  IMPUDENCE. 

inquire,  what  is  left,  then,  but  sure  success  to  the 
impudent?  and  the  chronicles  of  all  past  time,  as 
well  as  my  own  reason,  do  respond — 'thou  hast 
said  it.'  Nay,  it  seemeth  to  me  as  if  'twere  a 
golden  law  of  nature,  not  only  that  he  who  buries 
his  talent  shall  languish  in  obscurity,  but  also, 
that  he  who  fails  impudently  and  importunately  to 
blazon  forth  all  that  he  hath,  and  more,  and  to 
usher  into  broad  day  light,  with  every  meretricious 
garniture,  his  very  all,  is  surely  destined  to  pass 
down  the  stream  of  time,  as  worthless  rubbish ; 
and,  in  the  great  abyss  of  eternal  forgetfulness  to 
remain,  a  poor  martyr  to  the  purest  of  nature's 
products — modesty ! 

Be,  then,  my  theme  the  proud  advantages,  the 
radiant  glories  of  unalloyed,  disembodied,  prolific 
Impudence — of  that  callous  sort  which  hath  its 
seat  deep  in  the  soul,  which  forms  part  of  our 
inmost  nature,  takes  but  its  light  complexion  from 
adventitious  causes,  is  ever  harmonious  with  itself, 
and  which  triumphs  equally  over  circumstances, 
and  the  would-be  shadowing  influences  of  superior 
minds ! 

Some  do,  indeed,  gain  many  a  point  by  modes- 
ty, clad  in  Impudence's  habiliments ;  but  I  sing  of 
that  mysterious  influence  which  nature  doth  to 
some  impart,  and  which  commands  success,  appa- 
rently, sine  assetitatio7ie,  sine  blanditiis,  sine  dica- 
citaiej  sine  audacia  ferrece  frontis ;  and  this,  the 
highest  order  of  its  attributes,  points  it  out  as  the 
only  kind  of  Impudence  the  prince  of  Greek  come- 
dies would  have  ranked  among  the  greater  deities  ! 


THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  IMPUDENCE.       345 

The  inferior  sorts  of  Impudence,  though  admirable 
in  their  kind,  and  truly  useful  in  their  way,  need 
too  much  of  industrious  cultivation,  and  of  man's 
feeble  art,  to  claim  omnipotence  :  but,  where  nature 
hath  truly  laid  deep  her  brazen  foundations,  and 
thereon  hath  been  raised  a  goodly  superstructure, 
the  result  of  long  experience  in  the  art,  the  castle 
of  Impudence  thus  raised,  becometh  impregnable — 
all  arms  are  silenced,  and  the  lord  thereof  hath 
crowds  of  suppliant  worshippers,  who  grant  unto 
him  freely,  in  the  ratio  of  the  enormity  of  his 
demands ! 

For  who,  let  me  ask,  accordeth  any  thing  to 
mere  anticipators,  nay,  even  to  diffident  askers? 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  who  so  bold  as  to  refuse 
something  at  least,  to  the  importunate  demands  of 
the  daringly  impudent? — very  few,  I  ween;  for  all 
experience  teacheth  that  the  multitude  pileth  bless- 
ings and  honours  upon  the  adventurous,  the  fortu- 
nate, and  the  self-adulating,  as  Pelion  upon  Ossa, 
and  Ossa  upon  Pelion ;  and  that  the  crowd  doth 
love  to  exaggerate  the  successes  of  such,  quite  as 
much  as  these  hardy-faced  personages  do  love  to 
loom  so  largely  !     It  is  so,  and  yet  even  more  than 
this,  for,  some  of  the  most  renowned  charlatans 
the  world  hath  ever  known,  were  made  so,  partly 
by  the  flattery  of  the  plebs.     The  noble  distinction 
of  being  essentially  and  ex  natura  impudent,  be- 
longeth  only  to  a  blessed  few,  and  when  to  this 
be  added  their  own  industry  in  this  line,  and  the 
hosannas  of  the  multitude,  so  sure  to  follow,  they 
30 


346       THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  IMPUDENCE. 

then  do  truly  become  Menander's  deities,  and  the 
most  brilliant  among  fortune's  favourites. 

IMiere  are,  indeed,  instances  where  modest  merit 
liath  become  a  favoured  child  of  Impudence,  vaunt- 
ing as  loud  as  any,  after  it  hath  made  some  happy 
hit,  and  for  which  it  hath  been  long  and  inordi- 
nately praised — but  genuine,  lordly  Impudence  is 
that  which  starts  into  life  full  grown,  and  with 
brazen  armour,  regardless  of  teachings  and  train- 
ings, reposes  on  nature's  high  endowments ;  and, 
with  magic  skill,  embalms  all  flatteries,  and  anni- 
hilates all  frowns  ! 

When  I  take  a  retrospect  of  the  chronicles  of 
Impudence  in  all  ages,  nations,  tribes,  families,  and 
individuals,  and  find  how  much  it  hath  been  men- 
tally idolized  by  them  ail,  I  am  lost  in  wonder  that 
temples  and  altars  have  not  been  openly  raised  to 
it,  and  that  no  avowed  god  hath  therein  presided, — 
for,  when  poets,  and  others  have  spoken  of  it  as 
a  great  deity,  they  simply  meant  that  it  well  de- 
served so  to  be  regarded.  In  more  modern  ages, 
and  in  our  own  day,  the  triumphs  of  Impudence 
were,  and  are,  equally  signal,  as  may  be  seen  in 
the  marvellous  history  of  the  necromancers,  of 
the  astrologers,  alchemists,  empyrics,  panacea- 
venders,  and  in  the  golden  accumulations  of  those 
whose  trifles  have  been  grandiloquently  puffed ; 
and  lastly,  in  the  contrasted  neglect  and  poverty 
of  those  whose  great  inventions  change  the  face  of 
nature,  annihilate  time  and  space,  convert  mere 
operatives  into  philosophical  thinkers,  cause  the 
desert   to    bloom,   and   which   are  fast    elevating 


THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  IMPUDENCE.       347 

unknown  nations  to  rank  and  happiness  !     It  is 
incontrovertible,  tlien,  that  a  holy  alliance  of  Im- 
pudence with  even  a  new  invented  razor-strop,  a 
shining  blacking,  a  nonpareil  shot-measure,  or  a 
wonder-working  potato-parer,  is  of  far  more  worth 
to  its  possessor,  than  man's  noblest  contrivances, 
if  unhappily  associated  with  that  worthless  out- 
cast— Humility.    The  former  do  prosper  in  wealth, 
and    revel   in  the   loud   applauses  of  the   many  ; 
whereas  the  latter  do  languish  in  sore  disappoint- 
ments, in  comparative   obscurity,  and  sometimes, 
in  the  most  galling  poverty  !     Commend  me  then, 
to  hardy,  naked,  callous  Impudence:  for  Modesty 
is  an  arrant  simpleton  in  all  such  matters,  as  it 
often  enriches    the   world,  whilst  it  starves  itself 
and    progeny  ;    Avhereas    unmitigated    Impudence 
doth  knock  unceasingly  at  every  door,  claims  as 
its  due  ten-fold    that  it  receives,  and   receives  a 
thousand-fold  more  than  its  deserts. 

It  seemeth  to  me  as  if  a  volume  would  scarce 
suffice  to  exhaust  the  praises  of  Impudence — and 
yet  there  be  a  few  mawkish  people  in  the  world, 
who  would  retain  and  practise  the  old-fashioned 
notions  of  humility!  I  would  ask  such  ill-judging 
people  to  tell  me,  if  they  can,  why  scandal,  when 
cast  in  profusion  on  the  brightest  character,  is  so 
sure  to  leave  some  stains?  Is  it  not  that  the 
courageous  impudence  Avhich  could  attack  such 
characters,  implies  with  many,  that  there  must  be 
some  fault,  where  so  much  hath  been  so  boldly 
asserted?  So,  also,  look  at  the  sanctimonious 
visage   of   some   arch   Injpocritc,    the   people   will 


348      THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  IMPUDENCE. 

measure  his  piety  by  the  length  of  his  face,  and  by 
the  open  display  of  his  numerous  self-denials — 
turn,  then,  to  the  politician^  and  the  more  of  a 
demagogue,  the  more  of  a  favoured  patriot  is  he — 
observe  likewise  the  would-be-ora^or,  the  louder 
and  more  wordy,  the  more  eloquent  is  he — and 
the  scholar,  the  more  mysterious,  transcendental 
and  esoterically  wordy,  the  more  deeply  learned  is 
he — and  the  laioyer,  the  more  he  floats  in  the 
public  gaze,  vociferates  in  courts,  asseverates  his 
opinion,  and  compliantly  assents  to  the  mere 
wishes  of  his  clients,  the  wiser,  and  deeper  and 
more  skilful  is  he ! — then  the  merchant,  the  more 
money  he  spends,  the  more  to  spend  justly  hath 
he,— and  to  the  parvenu,  the  larger  his  hatch- 
ments, and  arms  of  pretensions,  the  more  ancient 
and  honourable  his  pedigree.  Nay,  pass  not  by 
even  the  fine  lady,  the  more  made  up  of  artificial 
appliances,  talkative,  exacting,  and  omnipresent, 
the  more  i)opular  and  irresistible  is  she!  Go  to 
the  opera,  the  squallynis  carry  the  night — to  the 
theatre,  the  mouthing  bellowers  are  the  most  ap- 
plauded— to  a  zoological  garden,  the  monkeys  sure- 
ly carry  off  the  palm — to  the  circus,  the  cloum  is 
infallibly  the  hero  of  the  whole !  In  fine,  all  life 
teems  with  the  glories,  the  admirable  successes 
of  pretension,  of  humbug,  and  of  immortal  Im- 
pudence. 

Impudence,  then,  must  be  a  positive  virtue;  it 
must  be  that  very  summum  bonurn,  which,  being 
sought  during  ages,  hath  escaped  the  scrutiny  of 
closet  philosophers,  though  practised  with  match- 


THE    ADVANTAGES    OF    IMPUDENCE.  349 

less  triumph,  by  the  ilhterate,  and  though  the 
worldly  Uterate  have  not  scrupled  to  acknowledge, 
and  sometimes  ardently  to  pursue  it!  Is  it  not, 
therefore,  passing  strange  that,  in  this  our  day  of 
mental  illumination,  when  any  thing  is  an  art, 
and  every  art  a  science,  Impudence,  the  most  pre- 
cious of  them  all,  should  not  have  been  regularly 
indoctrinated,  and  systematically  taught  in  our 
primary  schools,  colleges,  and  universities,  that  it 
should  not  have  been  lectured  on  by  the  itinerants, 
and  even  professorships  endowed  for  its  thorough 
inculcation,  both  as  to  its  principles  and  practice? 
Give  me,  then,  the  degree  of  Impudenticc  Doctor, 
rather  than  that  of  LL.  D.,  or  of  J.  U.  D!  since 
the  degree  I  would  seek  bringeth  with  it  siibstmice, 
the  others  a  sickly  hope,  as  little  palpable  as  the 
thin  air  of  an  half  exhausted  receiver,  and  often 
more  worthless  than  the  caput  inortuum  at  the 
bottom  of  a  crucible  !  Were  the  gods  to  give  me 
back  my  past  life,  I  should  study  this  most  august 
of  the  sciences,  with  an  intense  devotion,  as  being 
the  nucleus,  the  punctum  saliens,  yea,  the  very 
heart's  core  of  all  attainable  eminence  in  the  uses 
of  all  human  knowledge. 

Impudence  of  the  purest  sort,  doth  truly  inspire 
confidence,  invigorate  the  mind,  dis])el  gloom  ; 
and  doth  compensate  its  votaries  with  even  more 
than  usury  for  their  exertions.  It  doth  illustrate, 
perpetuate,  and  widely  diffuse  one's  fame  ;  it  doth 
greatly  enlarge  the  circle  of  one's  friends,  and 
astound  and  confound  all  jealous  enemies ;  and 
eventually,  it  doth  seduce  them  all  to  become  the 
30* 


350      THE  ADVANTAGES  OP  IMPUDENCE. 

horns,  the  trumpets,  the  cymbals  of  our  surpassing 
merits — the  wiUing  agents  for  the  furtherance  of 
our   numerous  conquests !     How  'stale,  flat,  and 
unprofitable,'  then,  is  modesty  along  side  of  im- 
pudence !     How  sickly,  puling,  and  inefficient  the 
former,  how  salient,  vigorous,  and  sempiternal  the 
latter!     Doth  not  Modesty  starve  herself  and  her 
children — and  where  is  her  courage,  her  talent, 
her  genius,  her  practicalness,  her  tact?     She  hath 
none,  absolutely  none  :  but  Impudence  is  confess- 
edly valiant,  is  instinct  with  the  means  of  rendering 
all  things  profitable  to  its  possessor,  and  seemingly 
useful  to  others;  is  familiar  with  every  narrow  lane 
and  dirty  corner  of  the  human  heart,  and  is  equally 
at  home  in  all  the  broad  avenues;  and,  in  both, 
il  walks  proudly  before  mankind,  as  one  conscious 
of  true  worth,  and  of  native  dignity!     Infinite  in 
tact,  boundless   in  common   sense;   and  familiar 
with  the   follies   of  man,   Impudence   is   sure  to 
make   them   all,  in  some   form  or  other,  willing 
ministers,  retainers,  lackeys,  and  puffers   in   the 
great  scheme  of  her  successes ;  and  fails  not  to 
see  them  all  eminently  prosperous  therein  !     Sure- 
ly, therefore,  the  philosophers  must  have  made  a 
sad  blunder,  a  vast  mistake  herein — but  all  this 
comes  of  their  reading  books,  instead  of  the  great 
volume  of  human  life ! 

The  poets  have  approved  themselves  far  wiser 
on  the  subject;  for,  what  saith  Hudibras,  the 
sagest  among  these  poetical  authorities? 

He  that  hath  but  impudence 
To  all  things  has  a  fair  pretence ; 
And  put  among  his  wants  but  shame. 
To  all  the  world  may  lay  his  claim. 


THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  IMPUDENCE.      351 

In  the  same  vein  doth  Oldham  discourse  when 
he  saith, 

Get  that  great  gift  and  talent :   Impudence, 
Accomplish'd  man's  supremest  excellence, 
'Tis  that  alone  prefers,  alone  makes  great. 
Confers  all  wealth,  all  titles  and  estate ; 
Gains  place  at  court,  can  make  a  fool  a  peer, 
An  ass  a  bishop,  vilest  blockheads  rear. 

Look,  moreover,  at  the  sons  of  the  Emerald 
Isle,  wheresoever  found,  and,  be  they  lawyers, 
physicians,  merchants,  soldiers,  or  poor  ditchers! 
Do  they  not  edge  all  others  out,  and  prosper 
themselves  when  and  where  others  would  lan- 
guish and  starve,  perhaps,  for  a  maravidi?  And 
how  Cometh  this,  but  that 

Hibernia  fam'd  'bove  ev'ry  other  grace 
For  matchless  intrepidity  of  face, 

turns  with  becoming  impudence,  every  misfortune 
into  a  joke  ;  quizzes  grave  philosophy  into  smihng 
complacency;   puts   on  a  bold,   plausible,  unper- 
turbed exterior;   looks  one  steadily  in   the  face; 
manfully   asseverates   his   claims;    vindicates   his 
opinions    against    all    facts,   and    all    truth — and 
comes  off  a  chuckling  conqueror !     Whereas  the 
proud,  but  modest  and  blushing  Englishman,  in 
the  like  case,  and  especially  if  in  misfortune,  care- 
fully examines  iiis  stock  of  marketable  ideas,  and 
if  these  be  found  comparatively  few  and   worth- 
less, dreams  not  of  assuming  virtues  not  his  own, 
and   modestly   shrinks    into   absolute    retirement, 
there   to  starve,  rather   than  to  live  on  the  rich 
bounties   ever  provided  for   the    truly  impudent! 
Now,  which  of  the  two  is  the  wiser?     I  pause 


352       THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  IMPUDENCE. 

not  for  a  reply,  every  sound  mind  must  render 
the  verdict  in  favour  of  that  most  sterling  and 
productive  of  all  the  virtues — Impudence. 
Contemplate,  further,  all  those  numerous 

'  Thieves  of  renown  and  pilferers  of  fame,^ 

who  have  suffered  others  to  toil,  that  they  might 
reap  the  fruits ;  or  those,  who  availing  themselves 
of  the   credulity  of  man,  have   indited  in   their 
closets,  ingeniously  contrived  travels  into  non-exis- 
tant  lands,  or  of  their  experience  in  countries  they 
had  never  visited,  or  invented  wondrous  tales  con- 
cerning those  they  had  seen — have  not  all  such 
been  revellers  in  good  fortune  ?    Observe,  also,  those 
who  have  written  plays,  as  of  Will  Shalcspeare, 
and  luxuriated  for  a  time,  in  the  vast  ocean  of  his 
fame;  or  those  who  have  manufactured  antiquities, 
chuckled  and  triumphed  in  the  archaiological  re- 
searches  of  the   virtuosi,   giving  thereby  double 
proof  of  the  great   advantages  of  Impudence,  in 
that  the  deceiver  and  the  deceived,  especially  pro- 
fited by  their  self-created  pretensions !    And  look 
still  further  at  how  admirably  those  who  unblush- 
ingly  have  taken  to  themselves  the  entire  works 
of  others,  which  had  been  lost  to  the  knowledge 
of  the  world,  and  boldly  published  them  as  the 
offspring  of  their  own  brains!  or  those  who  pur- 
posely criticize,  with  unsparing  severity,  the  most 
illustrious  works,  and  thus  cause  many  to  suppose 
the  critics  themselves  must  be  truly  great;  or  those 
who  unmercifully  damn  a  book   they  had  never 
read,  under  hope  that  their  own  meagre  productions 


THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  IMPUDENCE.       353 

on  a  similar  topic,  may  the  more  readily  succeed  ;  or 
those  who  secretly  review,  most  leniently,  of  course, 
their  own  works  ! — all  these  will  be  found  in  the 
thriving  sons  of  Impudence.  Contemplate,  more- 
over, those  who  translate  from  foreign  languages 
the  flowers  of  unknown  authors,  and  garnish 
therewith  their  own  impoverished  pages;  and  those 
whose  wits  are  ever  set  upon  deceiving  mankind 
by  that  cunningly  devised  impudence  which  de- 
stroys, perverts,  or  mangles  the  fame  of  others  by 
patronizing  reviews,  but  which,  by  incomprehensi- 
ble generalities,  praises,  and  yet  by  numerous  insi- 
duous  means,  turn  their  author  into  a  very  poor 
thing;  or,  finally,  those  who,  by  the  like  artifices, 
divert  the  renown  of  others  into  their  own  chan- 
nels, or  gain  to  themselves  a  lustre  by  an  incessant 
meddling  with  illustrious  names  ! — all  of  which 
persons  do  daily  reap  the  legitimate  fruits  of  impu- 
dence, showing  thereby  their  own  deep  acquain- 
tance, with  man's  unsearchable  cullibility,  and 
their  own  admirable  tact  in  culling  to  themselves 
very  many  advantages ! 

Such  men  have  been  strangely  called  impostors  ! 
Are  they  not  rather  philosophers  of  the  highest 
order !  for  if  even  unsuccessful  in  the  end,  how 
much  have  they  previously  gained,  and  how  surely 
do  they  all  live  in  after  history,  when  the  names  of 
the  modest  are  clean  gone  !  Who,  for  example, 
would  have  ever  heard  in  our  day,  of  George  Psal- 
manazer,  that  most  'renowned  man  of  impudence,' 
who  after  finding  the  life  of  a  wandering  vagabond 
profitless,  boldly  struck  out  into  a  new  path  of  such 


354       THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  IMPUDENCE. 

wondrous  shamelessness,  as  astounded  all  men 
and  women  too,  of  that  day  and  generation  ;  and 
for  a  time,  gained  to  himself  many  laurels,  a  good 
deal  of  money,  and  an  imperishable  name  for  all 
after  ages  ! 

He  was  from  the  south  of  France.     Educated 
for  a  short  time  in  a  Jesuits'  college,  he  assumed 
the  habit  of  a  pilgrim,  and  subsisted  on  casual 
charities.      Among  strangers,  then,  he  conceived 
the  daring  scheme  of  wholly  abandoning  his  iden- 
tity, and  thereupon  changed  his  country,  his  habi- 
tudes, dress,  and,  in  part,  his  language,  giving  out 
that  he  was  a  heathen  native  of  an  island,  then  but 
little  known,  called  Formosa!     For  this  purpose, 
he  invented  an  entire  new  language,  came  to  En- 
gland as  a  convert  to  Christianity,  translated  the 
church  catechism  into  his  Formosan  tongue,  and 
published  a  history  of  this   Formosa,  in  which, 
with  much  ingenuity,  he  described  the  people  and 
their  country,  with  all  requisite  details ;  invented 
an  appropriate  religion,  with  all  its  ceremonials; 
practised  for  the  curious,  its  various  uncouth  exer- 
cises, exhibited  a  prayer  book  in  his  own  language, 
with  alphabetical  characters  to  be  read  from  right 
to  left !  translated  passages  from  classic  authors, 
into  the  language  of  his  own  invention ;  ale  raw 
meats  with  a  becoming  gout:   stoutly,  and  most 
brazenly   contended    in   broken    French,   with    a 
learned  Jesuit,  then  late  from  China,  who  had  less 
faith  in  the  Formosan,  than  others  had ;  sold  va- 
rious editions  of  his  books ;  obtained  by  his  sole 
influence,  for  his  coadjutor,  one  Innes,  an  English 


THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  IMPUDENCE.        355 

clergyman,  some  church  preferment;  procured  for 
himself  the  privileges  of  the  University  of  Oxford — 
and  thus  gloried  and  revelled  in  his  matchless 
impudence!  The  bubble,  indeed,  burst  at  last; 
but  hath  not  Master  Psalmanazer,  secured  immor- 
tality for  himself? — and  did  he  not,  even  after,  as 
well  as  before  the  eclaircissemeiit,  reap  an  abun- 
dant harvest  of  signal  advantages?  He  surely  did, 
for  his  name  became  quite  too  famous,  not  to  at- 
tract those  harpies,  the  booksellers ;  and  his  auto- 
biography, also,  gave  him,  and  of  course  them^ 
both  money  and  fame,  which  never  fail  to  attend 
those,  who,  shaking  off  old-fashioned  notions  of 
conscience,  and  of  truth,  worship  at  the  altar  of 
impudence,  with  befitting  fortitude. 

Let  Impudence,  then,  be  the  pole-star  of  every 
man,  of  every  age,  and  of  every  profession  ;  it 
never  yet  has  failed  of  rich  success,  and  never 
can — so  long  as  man  remains  a  weak,  silly,  undis- 
criminating  being — so  long  as  art  can  deceive  inno- 
cence— so  long  as  the  multitude  hath  more  foolish 
than  wise  men  to  make  up  their  numbers :  but  if 
destiny  irrevocably  restricts  any  one  to  associations 
with  the  virtuous,  and  the  truly  wise,  my  counsel 
then  is  to  have  no  dealings  whatever  with  this 
thing  called  impudence — for  it  is  then  an  aquatic 
plant  in  an  arid  soil,  a  bubble  in  an  exhausted 
receiver,  an  odour  with  no  present  olfactories,  a 
glaring  colour  to  a  blind  man ;  and,  in  fine,  a  thing 
wholly  out  of  its  sphere  and  elements  ;  and  as 
such,  destined  to  withering  contempt,  and  to  cer- 
tain death ! 

THE     END. 


WORKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 


Samuel  Colman,  No.  S  jlstor  House,  Broadway,  New  York, 
has  for  sale  the  following  works,  by  David  Hoffman,  Esquire, 
and  he  submits  a  few  notices  of  each  work. 

'Thoughts  by  A.  Grumbler,  of  Eromitlab.'     1  vol.  pp.  374. 

Ocf^This  is  the  first  of  a  series  of  volumes  on  an  infinite  variety 
of  topics — the  design  of  the  series  being  somewhat  intimated  by 
the  author  in  his  preface  and  dedication  to  the  'Peep  into  my  Note 
Book' — the  second  in  the  series. 

The  following  notices  indicating  the  very  favourable  manner  in 
which  the  first  small  edition  of  the  'Grumbler,'  was  received, 
though  issued  anonymously,  have  induced  the  author  to  allow  the 
publication  in  New  York  of  a  second,  in  order  that  the  work  may 
be  more  generally  difiused  according  to  the  apparent  demand. 

NOTICES   OF  THE   GRUMBLER. 

'The  work  is  divided  into  two  parts,  each  into  chapters  and 
sections.  In  the  first  division  are  treated  City  Manners  in  Erom- 
itlab, as  Baltimore  is  termed.  He  here  descants,  with  much  pleas- 
ing information,  on  the  prevailing  follies  of  the  day,  and  beautifully 
holds  up  to  reprobation  many  of  the  follies  that  have  crept  into  the 
good  city  of  Eromitlab.  The  article  entitled  'The  Mchemical 
Theory,'  is  specially  worthy  the  reader's  attention.  The  second 
division  is  devoted  to  our  national  manners,  &c.  So  rare,  indeed, 
is  the  appearance  of  a  work  containing  such  a  fund  of  tliought  on 
'Men,  Manners,  and  Things,'  that  we  perceive  in  its  publication  a 
return  of  mental  sanity  in  book-makers,  and  book-readers.  The 
production  does  honour  to  him  as  a  philosopher — patriot — and 
philanthropist.  We  therefore  hope  that  this  work  will  spread  far 
and  wide — as  a  censor  moi-um,  it  will  serve  to  root  out  many  false 
notions — as  an  exemplar  of  pure  and  classical  English,  it  will 
remain  as  a  model  for  imitation  in  many  respects — and  as  a  valua- 
ble fund  of  varied  learning,  it  will  prove  eminently  useful.' 

[Baltimore  Chronicle. 


A  well  merited  tribute  is  paid  in  the  annexed  article  from  the 
Christian  Statesman,  published  at  Washington,  to  the  admirable 
work  of  an  estimable  author. 

Anthony  Grumbler,  of  Grumbleton  Hall,  Esquire. — 
The  popular  volume,  of  which  the  author  has  assumed  the  fore- 
going nom  de  guerre,  has  been  attributed  to  Mr.  David  Hoffman, 
an  eminent  lawyer  of  Baltimore,  of  which  city,  under  the  back- 
ward reading  of 'Eromitlab,'  the  writer  admits  himself  to  be  a  resi- 
dent.    The  rumour  is  alluded  to  thus  plainly,  because  it  has  not, 


A  NOTICES    OF    THE    GRUMBLER. 

SO  far  as  we  know,  been  contradicted  ;  and  because,  whether  true 
or  otherwise,  it  can  detract  nothing  from  Mr.  Hoffman's  hij^h  repu- 
tation, albeit  that  has  been  earned  by  etibrts  of  a  very  different, 
and  of  a  far  more  elaborate  character.  The  'Miscellaneous  Thovgkts' 
of  Squire  Grumbler,  teach  principles  of  religion,  morals,  politics, 
and  literature,  so  sound,  that  they  may  well  have  emanated  from  a 
Doctor  of  Laws.  They  abound  also  in  interesting  descriptions  of 
manners.  One  avowed  purpose  of  these  essays  being  to  chastise 
follies,  individual  and  conventional  satire  was  now  and  then  to  be 
expected ;  but  it  is  never  malicious.  It  is  'the  wit  that  loves  to 
play,  not  wound.'  Indeed,  the  writer's  benevolence  is  quite  as 
conspicuous  as  his  skill  in  composition.  And  this  is  saying  a  great 
deal ;  for  a  book  of  more  literary  merit  has  not,  perhaps,  been  pro- 
duced by  any  gentleman  of  the  long  robe,  since  the  publication  of 
Butler's  Reminiscences.  It  bears,  however,  no  affinity  to  that 
work;  being  a  series,  or  rather  an  aggregation,  of  reflections  on  a 
variety  of  subjects,  with  appropriate  illustrations.  We  are  happy 
to  learn  from  the  'Prefatory  Epistle,'  that  the  public  may  expect 
to  hear  from  the  author  again. 


The  Jurist  has  the  following  notice  of  the  recently  published 
work  of  an  estimable  and  talented  fellow-citizen. 

LAW  AND  LITERATURE. 

JVIlSCELLANEOUS    THOUGHTS    ON    MeN,  MaNNERS  AND    THINGS. 

By  Anthony  Grumbler,  of  Grumbleton  Hall,  Esquire. 
Baltimore ;  pp.  374. 

Cognizance  of  a  work  like  the  present  would  hardly  seem  to  fall 
within  the  limited  jurisdiction  of  a  law  journal,  unless  the  person 
of  the  author  gave  a  jurisdiction  which  could  not  be  founded  on 
the  subject-matter.  When  we  mention  David  Hofi'man,  Esq. 
the  able  and  accomplished  author  of  the  Course  of  Legal  Study, 
as  the  party  now  in  court,  all  doubt  must  cease  with  regard  to 
the  present  extension  of  our  critical  cognizance.  In  England 
we  have  the  brilliant  example  of  Sergeant  Talfourd,  who,  amidst 
the  numerous  calls  of  an  arduous  profession,  with  added  parliamen- 
tary duties,  has  kept  alive  an  exalted  taste  for  literature,  and  pro- 
duced works,  in  this  more  genial  department,  which  the  world  will 
not  willingly  let  die.  In  our  country,  we  take  pleasure  in  adding 
Mr.  Hoifman's  name  to  the  list  of  those,  who,  while  serving  at  the 
highest  altars  of  Themis,  have  found  time  to  sacrifice  to  the  muses. 
The  present  volume  is  a  most  agreeable  and  instructive  collection 
of  thoughts  on  men,  manners  and  things,  expressed  in  choice  and 
polished  words,  and  well  calculated  to  mitigate  the  hardy  skepti- 
cisms and  radicalisms,  which  have  so  strongly  tempered  our  pre- 
sent age  and  community.  The  portions  on  the  judiciary  (pp.  213, 
21G,)  and  on  the  legal  profession  (pp.  322,  327,)  will  be  very  inte- 
resting to  the  lawyer.  The  whole  volume  we  commend,  in  the 
fullest  manner,  to  the  candid  attention  of  the  reader.  With  greater 
space  we  should  venture  stronger  terms  of  praise ;  but  we  feel 
persuaded  that  the  reputation  of  the  distinguished  author  will  chal- 
lenge for  this  little  book,  a  notice  far  beyond  the  influence  of  our 
humble  page. 


NOTICES    OP    THE    GRUMBLER.  3 

Having;  already  assumed  jurisdiction  of  the  learned  author  for 
one  purpose,  we  shall  take  advantage  of  his  present /persona  standi 
in  judicio,  and,  by  a  sort  of  ac  etium  process,  open  some  further 
matters  with  regard  to  him.  We  avail  ourselves  of  the  present 
opportunity  to  renew  our  testimony  to  the  great  merit  and  useful- 
ness of  Mr.  Holfman's  legal  works.  On  former  occasions,  the 
Legal  Oullines  and  Course  of  Legal  Study  have  both  been  fully 
examined  and  commended  in  the  pages  of  this  journal.  To  the 
latter  work,  we  take  pleasure  and  pride  in  acknowledging  our  early 
and  constant  obligation  ;  and  we  should  not  do  our  duty  to  the 
profession,  particularly  to  the  student,  if  we  moderated  our  lan- 
guage. Mr.  Hoffman  is  a  benefactor  of  his  profession.  More 
than  all  others,  he  has  contributed  to  elevate  its  standard  of  learn- 
ing and  morals,  to  encourage  the  young  aspirant  for  its  honourable 
rewards,  and,  as  a  consequence,  to  extend  its  just  influence  in  the 
community.  The  practiser,  absorbed  in  the  daily  calls  of  busi- 
ness, and  the  young  student,  for  whom  the  'gladsome  light  of 
jurisprudence'  is  now  shining  forth,  'may  both  derive  aid,  direction, 
and  encouragement  from  this  work.  There  is  no  single  work  in  the 
whole  range  of  the  law,  which,  with  so  much  interest,  imparts  so 
much  good.  If  the  student  can  afford  to  buy  but  a  single  book,  let 
it  be  Hoffman's  Course  of  Legal  Study,  which  in  itself  is  a  small 
library,  besides  being  a  key  to  a  large  one.  If  we  lived  in  an  age 
when  learning  was  its  own  exceeding  great  reward,  and  a  coatless 
scholar  could  hope  to  encounter  with  composure  the  stare  of  the 
world,  we  should  be  disposed  to  repeat,  of  this  work,  what  the 
great  Cujas  said  of  Paul  de  Castro  :  Qui  non  habet  Paulum  de 
Castro,  tunicam  veiidat,  et  emat. 


(From  the  National  Intelligencer.) 

In  the  ripeness  of  his  professional  fame  he  has  found  opportu- 
nity to  prepare  a  work  less  grave,  though,  in  its  way,  scarcely  less 
instructive  than  his  former  compositions.  The  'Thoughts'  of  this 
agreeable  'grumbler'  are  the  thoughts  of  an  acute  mind,  invigo- 
rated by  professional  discipline,  and  enlarged  by  liberal  studies 
and  intercourse  with  the  circles  of  fashion,  as  well  as  of  business. 
The  manner  in  which  the  task  is  executed  is  sufficient,  of  itself, 
to  vindicate  his  brotherhood  against  the  sneer  of  Hume,  that 
lawyers  'are  seldom  models  of  science  or  politeness ;'  a  remark 
prompted  by  the  distaste  of  the  great  historian  for  the  occupation 
lor  which  he  was  originally  intended.  'I  found,'  he  confesses  in 
his  charming  autobiography,  'an  insurmountable  aversion  to  every 
tiling  but  the  pursuits  of  philosophy  and  general  learning;  and 
when  they  fancied  I  was  porini;  upon  Vocl  ;vnd  V^inneiis,  Cicero 
and  Virgil  were  the  authors  which  I  was  secretly  devouring.' 

The  'Miscellaneous  Thoughts'  are  made  to  consist  of  two  divi- 
sions ;  the  first,  called  'city  manners,  characters  and  things ;'  the 
second,  'national  manners,  characters  and  things.'  This  classifica- 
tion is,  perhaps,  somewhat  arbitrary.  Many  of  the  sketches  in  the 
first  division,  instea<l  of  being  peculiar  to  city  life,  are  even  more 
extensive  in  their  application  than  some  of  those  under  tlie  second 
head.  This,  however,  if  it  be  a  fault,  is  one  quite  venial ;  and  the 
ingenious  author  will  probably  be  ready  to  show,  that  it  is  one 


4  NOTICES    OF    THE    GRUMBLER. 

which  is  inseparable  from  the  subject.  His  particular  plan  is 
novel.  The  celebrated  'characters'  of  Theophrastus  are  mere  out- 
lines, to  be  filled  up  by  the  judgment  or  caprice  of  the  reader ;  and 
the  popular  work  of  our  own  day,  called  'Lacon,'  is  chiefly  epi- 
f^rammatic.  Onr  friend  Grumbler  is  more  indulgent  to  his  readers. 
Though  mindful  of  the  good  old  maxim,  that  'brevity  is  the  soul 
of  wit,'  he  is  not  so  inconveniently  curt  as  to  mystify  others,  but 
states  his  proposition  so  distinctly,  that,  if  they  are  puzzled  about 
his  meaning,  themselves  only  can  be  blamed.  In  many  instances, 
the  proposition  is  familiarized  by  an  example  ;  in  some,  it  is  so 
expressed  as  to  require  none  ;  and,  in  others,  the  example  is  itself 
the  proposition,  but  in  the  most  graphic  form  in  which  the  propo- 
sition could  be  exhibited.  His  idea  of  combining,  so  to  speak,  a 
picture  with  a  precept,  is  a  manifest  improvement  on  the  plan  of 
former  works,  to  which  his  own  bears  a  generic  resemblance. 

The  writer  seems  as  clearly  to  perceive,  as  he  is  successful  in 
obviating,  the  difficulty  of  preventing  his  characters  from  being 
received  as  satires  on  individuals.  'AH  history,'  he  remarks,  in 
closing  some  observations  on  tliis  point,  'sheweth  that  in  such 
matters,  as  are  herein  contained,  there  are  minds  so  conscience- 
stricken  as  to  be  wholly  incapable  of  reading  them  without  apply- 
ing to  themselves  the  characters  designed  for  a  class ;  and  should  this 
be  verified  in  the  present  instance,  I  have  but  one  reply — if  they  be 
applicable,  they  whom  the  cap  fits  should  be  grateful  for  the  salu- 
tary reproof — if  not,  they  slander  themselves,'  'Man,'  he  adds,  'hath 
ever  been  so  much  the  sport  of  prejudice,  of  custom,  and  habit;  so 
many  opinions  come  to  him  with  the  hoary  locks  of  time,  or  in  the 
more  captivating  attire  of  novelty,  and  fashion  is  so  lordly  a  prince, 
his  mandates  being  practised  without  any  inquiry  as  to  the  reasona- 
bleness thereof,  that  there  be  few  who  can  endure  to  look  upon  the 
resplendent  face  of  unveiled  truth  ;  and  the  many  have,  therefore, 
an  unseemly  way  of  considering  those  as  impertinent  pretenders, 
a,nd  intruders  upon  their  rights,  who  essay  to  rebuke  their  follies, 
and  to  breathe  'into  the  torpid  breast  of  daily  life'  their  chiding 
counsels.  And  this,  especially,  is  the  case,  if  the  reproof  be 
lengthened  into  essays  or  dissertations,  without  many  of  those 
verdant  spots  by  which  they  seek  to  relieve  themselves  from  the 
cheerless  and  arid  wastes  of  moral  instruction.' 


(From  the  New  York  Star.) 

'Among  the  writers  of  America  whose  pens  are  contributing  to 
the  agreeable  recreation  and  moral  improvement  of  their  country- 
men, we  mention  with  pride  David  Hoffman,  Esq.  of  Baltimore, 
This  distinguished  barrister,  after  a  life  well  spent  in  his  profes- 
sion, and  the  attainment  of  a  high  reputation  by  his  legal  acquire- 
ments and  published  works,  has  retired  upon  an  elegant  compe- 
tency, and  devotes  his  leisure  to  the  production  of  a  series  of  moral 
essays,  the  first  of  which  appeared  under  the  incognito  of  'Miscel- 
laneous Thoughts,  by  Anthony  Grumbler,  Esq.'  We  are  pleased 
to  learn  from  the  Baltimore  American  that  he  has  now  in  the  press 
a  continuation  of  these  under  the  title  of  'A  peep  into  my  Note 
Book.'    The  subjects  treated  of  are  of  a  domestic  character,  and 


NOTICES-  OF  THE    GRUMBLER. 


all  have  a  pure  moral  bearing,  and  are  full  of  entertaining  and 
sprightly  anecdote — to  which  we  must  be  permitted  to  add  that 
they  are  characterized  also  by  a  vigorous  and  correct  style,  with 
thoughts  that  evince  a  close  and  accurate  acquaintance  with  man- 
kind, and  extensive  erudition.  We  hail  Mr.  Hoffman  as  one  of 
our  first  moral  essayists.' 


(From  the  AtheniFum  ) 


'The  Grumblings  are  generally  laconic,  and  some  have  a  quaint- 
ness  and  humour  about  them  which  is  peculiarly  agreeable,  whilst 
others  have  a  terseness  and  force,  which  would  have  done  honour 
to  CoLTOX  himself. 

The  author  has  evidently  not  passed  his  life  at  Grumbleton 
Hall, — he  shows  the  refined  taste  of  a  scholar — the  polish  of  a 
gentleman — and  the  ease  of  one  who  has  mingled  much  in  society, 
without  falling  into  the  errors  which  he  exposes!'  The  two  last 
articles  of  the  volume,  entitled  'Delicate  Reproof  of  Swear- 
ing'— and  'Squire  Grumbler's  Solicitude  for,  and  Fare- 
well to  His  Book,'  we  should  like  to  insert,  would  our  limits 
permit.' 

(From  the  Philadelphia  Gazette.) 

This  is  evidently  the  production  of  a  sound  mind,  and  a  master 
of  the  sententious.  He  does  not,  however,  impress  by  antithesis, 
like  Lacon  ;  he  is  a  maker  of  proverbs  and  short  essays,  to  many 
of  which  may  be  promised  a  long  duration.  The  author  writes 
with  ease  and  with  spirit ;  objects  which  by  the  common  eye  are 
neglected,  are  to  him  provocatives  of  sensible  and  salutary  thought, 
in  morals,  manners,  and  the  didactics  of  life.  The  writer  reasons 
briefly,  but  acutely  ;  and  appears  to  be  one  who,  if  occasion  should 
serve,  could  exercise  his  powers  successfully  on  the  abtrusest 
topics.  His  motto,  which  he  derives  from  Osborne,  is  a  good 
expositor  of  the  volume : — 'As  St.  Austin  saitli  of  short  and  holy 
ejaculations,  that  they  pierce  heaven  as  soon,  if  not  quicker,  than 
more  tedious  prayers ;  so  I  have  reaped  greater  benefit  from  con- 
cise and  casual  remarks  on  miscellaneous  topics,  than  from  long 
and  voluminous  treatises,  relating  to  one  and  the  same  thing.' 


(From  the  Merchant.) 

Miscellaneous  Thoughts  on  Men,  Manners  and  Things, 
BY  Anthony  Grumbler,  of  Grumbleton  Hall,  Esq.  is  the 
title  of  some  three  hundred  pages;  treating,  as  the  title  imports,  of 
men,  manners,  and  things,  in  short  notices,  which  evince  that  the 
writer  is  familiar  with  society,  and  has  studied  the  subjects  on 
which  he  writes. 


(From  Dunglissoii's  Medical  Intelligencer.) 

'There  is  much  truth  in  the  following  pertinent  observations 
from  the  pen — if  we  mistake  not — of  a  distinguished  lawyer,  David 
Hoffman,  Esq.  of  Baltimore.    The  whole  work,  in  which  they 


6  NOTICES    OF    THE    GRUMBLER, 

appear,  is  well  worthy  of  attentive  perusal.  It  is  evidently  the 
production  of  one  accustomed  to  observe  accurately  and  to  reflect 
deeply.' 

[We  omit  the  extract,  entitled  'The  Medical  Profession.'] 

(From  the  American.) 

'There  is  no  difficulty  in  making  extracts  from  a  book,  every 
leaf  of  which,  from  title  page  to  colophon,  merits  the  reader's 
attention — but  he  will  thank  us,  we  are  sure,  for  directing  his 
notice  to  the  work  by  so  agreeable  a  foretaste  of  its  merit  as  the 
following.  [The  extract  entitled  '  Threading  a  Needle  an  Emblem 
of  Truth,''  we  omit.] 

(From  the  Portland  Orion.) 

'Upon  running  our  eyes  again  over  the  work,  we  find  we  have 
by  no  means  republished  the  most  interesting  portions,  and  there- 
fore propose  to  continue  our  selections,  till  we  have  given  our 
readers  a  fair  specimen  of  Mr.  Anthony  Grumbler's  visions  and 
original  cogitations.     [Here  followed  numerous  extracts.] 


Oi5-  This  work  has  been  strongly  noticed  by  the  North  American 
Review — by  several  British  Journals  and  Reviews,  in  all,  by  more 
than  fifty  notices. 


S.    COLMAN 


Has  also  for  sale  a  few  copies  of  the  author's  legal  works, 
entitled 

LEGAL   OUTLINES, 

complete  iu  one  volume,  pp.  675 — with  a  letter  addressed  to  'British 
Students.'    Also,  his 

COURSE  OF  LEGAL  STUDY, 

Second  edition — re-written  and  much  enlarged,  in  two  volumes, 
paged  through,  pp.  876.  Ci3="The  recommendations  of  this  work 
have  been  so  remarkably  strong  in  tlie  United  States,  Germany, 
and  France,  that  the  entire  edition  would  doubtless  have  been 
exhausted,  bad  the  work  been  published— only  a  comparatively 
few  copies  having  been  diffused.  This  work  is  now,  for  the  first 
time,  fully  before  the  public. 

***The  author  has  nearly  ready  for  publication  a  new  work, 
entitled  'Selections  from  the  Chronicles  of  Cartaphilus, 

THE   WANDERING  JEW, 

Embracing  a  period  of  nearly  nineteen  centuries.'  The  first  series 
in  two  volumes,  will  embrace  the  life  of  this  extraordinary  per- 
sonage, from  A.  D.  27,  to  A.  D.  800 


PUBLISHED    BV 

JAMES   KAY,  JR.  &   BROTHER,  Philadelphia. 
HOFFMAN'S 

COURSE    OF     LEGAL    STUDY, 

ADDRESSED   TO 

STUDENTS  AND  THE   PROFESSION  GENERALLY. 


Second  Edition — Re-written  and  much  enlarged,  in  two  volumes, 
paged  through,  pp.  876. 

The  work  is  now  under  the  sole  agency  of  Kay  &,  Bkother,  to 
whom  Booksellers  throughout  the  Union  will  please  apply. 


recommendations  of  the  first  edition. 

This  work  is  recommended  in  the  strongest  terms  by  Chief 
Justice  Marshall,  Mr.  Justice  Story,  Chancellor  Kent,  Judge 
Spencer,  De  Witt  Clinton,  Professor  Stearnes,  Chief  Justice  Tilgh- 
man,  Mr.  Justice  Washington,  Mr.  Justice  Story,  the  Hon.  Daniel 
Webster,  and  by  more  than  200  eminent  lawyers  of  this  and  other 
countries.  It  has  been  elaborately  reviewed  by  the  North  Ameri- 
can Review,  the  Analectic  Magazine,  and  by  many  other  periodi- 
cals. The  British  and  Continental  Reviews  speak  of  it  in  the 
highest  terms,  and  the  entire  edition  was  exhausted  in  eighteen 
months. 

Judge  Duvall  considers  it  'a  most  valuable  acquisition  to  the 
practitioner,  and  to  the  student  it  is  inestimable.^ 

Judge  Story  says  'It  is  truly  delightful  to  me  also  to  perceive 
that  the  author  does  not  confine  the  student  to  the  mere  walks  of 
the  Common  law :  but  he  has  drawn  him  to  the  noble  studies  of 
the  Admiralty,  Maritime  and  Civil  Law.  The  work  is  an  honour 
to  our  country,  and  if  its  precepts  are  steadily  pursued  by  the 
profession,  I  think  it  will  not  be  rashness  to  declare  that  the  next 
age  will  exhibit  an  American  bar  not  excelled  by  any  in  Europe. 
No  present  could  be  more  acceptable  than  a  work  which  enables 
young  men  to  see  the  paths  oi  legal  science,  and  points  out  so 
many  excellent  instructions  to  guide  and  cheer  them  on  their 
journey.' 


8  NOTICES    OF   THE    LEGAL    STtTDT. 

The  North  American  Review  of  34  pages,  concludes  with  sayings 
'In  quitting  the  work  we  have  not  the  shghtest  hesitation  to  de- 
clare that  it  contains  by  far  the  most  perfect  system  for  the  study 
of  the  law  that  has  ever  been  offered  to  the  public.  We  cordially 
recommend  it  to  all  lawyers  as  a  model  for  the  direction  of  all 
students  who  may  be  cominilted  to  their  charge;  and  we  hazard 
nothing  in  asserting  that  if  its  precepts  are  steadily  pursued,  high 
as  the  profession  now  stands  in  our  country,  it  will  attain  a  higher 
elevation,  an  elevation  which  shall  command  the  reverence  of 
Europe,  and  reflect  back  light  and  glory  upon  the  land  and  the 
law  of  our  forefathers.' 

Chancellor  Kent  says,  'Whoever  follows  its  directions  will 
be  a  well  read  and  accomplished  lawyer.  Many  of  the  depart- 
ments of  the  science  to  which  the  student  is  pointed  suits  my  taste 
exactly. 

De  Witt  Clinton  says,  'The  design  is  judicious,  and  the 
execution  most  felicitous.  It  contains  a  mass  of  information  and 
learning  seldom  equalled,  and  is  an  invaluable  guide  to  legal 
knowledge.' 

recommendations  of  the  second  edition. 

The  Foreign  Reviews  of  England,  France,  and  Germanj',  have 
favourably  noticed  this  work. 

The  London  Legal  Observer  bestows  on  it  a  full  review,  and 
remarks,  'It  will  be  observed,  that  here  the  student  will  find  either 
instruction,  or  the  means  of  obtaining  instruction,  on  evei-y  subject 
bearing  directly  or  indirectly,  nearly  or  remotely  on  all  the  vast 
field  of  jurisprudence.  We  think  Mr.  Hoftrnan  has  made  an  im- 
portant contribution  to  the  stock  of  works  on  the  study  of  the  law. 
His  book  is  written  with  great  force  and  correctness,  in  an  excel- 
lent tone  of  moral  feeling,  and  with  a  constant  view  to  the  well- 
being  and  dignity  of  the  profession.' 

Le  Droit,  a  Parisian  legal  periodical,  after  speaking  of  the 
German,  English,  and  American  modes  of  study,  remarks,  that 
'Although  Mr.  Hoffman's  work  was  written  for  American  readers, 
yet  French  lawyers  may  consult  it  with  the  greatest  advantage. 
They  will  find  therein  the  merits  and  defects  of  almost  all  the 
authors  upon  this  science,  either  of  England,  America,  or  the 
Continent  of  Europe,  pointed  out  with  clearness  and  precision. 
They  will  find  faithful  epitomes  of  their  works,  and  frequent 
biographical  notices  replete  with  interest  and  learning.' 

MoNS.  FoELix,  in  his  Rewe  Etranqere  et  Francaise,  has  an 
interesting  review  of  this  work,  in  which  he  gives  the  author  great 
credit  for  this  and  also  for  his  'Legal  Outlines,'  and  expresses 
great  admiration  of  that  portion  of  the  former  which  relates  to  legal 
morals  or  professional  deportment. 

The  American  notices  of  this  second  edition  are  equally  nume- 
rous and  laudatory.  The  Jurist  commences  with  saying,  'This 
is  one  of  the  most  elegant  and  interesting  law  works  that  the  press- 


NOTICES    OF    THE    LEGAL    STUDV.  if 

of  England  or  America  has  put  forth,  since  the  days  of  Sir  William 
Blackstone.  The  perusal  of  it  has  afforded  the  same  gratification 
to  the  writer  as  he  derived  from  the  unique,  and  masterly  treatise 
on  the  principles  of  pleading  by  Mr.  Sergeant  Stephen.  There 
is  a  freshness  and  originality  throughout  the  pages  of  these  two 
volumes,  that  prove  its  author's  mind  to  be  thoroughly  imbued 
with  legal  lore,  and  expanded  and  adorned  by  the  most  liberal  and 
diversified  studies.'  After  the  Reviewer  has  thoroughly  examined 
the  volumes,  the  editor  adds  his  sanction  thus,  'We  cannot  forbear 
expressing  our  hearty  concurrence  with  the  views  of  the  above 
able  and  learned  article,  and  adding  our  humble  tribute  of  admira- 
tion and  praise  of  Mr.  Hoffman's  work.  The  Course  of  Legal 
Studij  is  a  book,  which  should  be  in  the  hands  of  every  student, 
and  on  the  table  of  every  practitioner.  Mr.  Hoffman  is  eminently 
the  studenVs  friend,  and  "his  advice  and  encouragement  cannot  fail 
to  cheer  the  desponding,  to  excite  the  indolent,  and  to  confirm  the 
ambitious  and  ardent  in  the  arduous  studies  before  them — 'I  never 
read  the  old  song  of  Percy  and  Douglass,'  says  Sir  Philip  Sydney, 
'without  feeling  my  very  heart  stirred  as  by  the  sound  of  a 
trumpet;'  nor  do  we  believe  that  the  law  student,  whose  mind  and 
heart  are  properly  attuned  to  the  calls  of  duty,  can  read  Mr.  Hoff- 
man's book  without  feeling  an  impulse,  scarcely  less  moving,  than 
that  which  stirred  the  bosom  of  the  accomplished  knight,  and 
which  he  has  with  such  stirring  language  expressed.' 

(From  the  National  Gazette.) 

Hoffman's  Course  of  Legal  Study. 

A  friend,  a  member  of  the  bar,  has  just  shewn  us  this  new  work. 
It  is  in  two  beautiful  royal  octavo  volumes;  and  is,  in  point  of 
point  of  paper,  type,  and  mechanical  execution,  a  credit  to  the  city 
of  Baltimore,  whence  it  emanates.  To  judge  from  the  varied  con- 
tents of  the  two  volumes,  and  from  what  has  been  communicated 
to  us  in  reference  to  them,  it  would  seem  that  the  profession  of  our 
country  owe  the  eminent  lawyer  who  has  written  them,  a  large 
debt.  Mr.  Hoffman  has  been  among  the  first  and  most  efficient  in 
introducing  liberal  and  expanded  views  of  Law  Studies  throughout 
the  Union,  and  in  promoting  legal  education.  The  first  edition  of 
this  work,  published  more  than  fifteen  years  ago,  in  one  volume, 
has,  we  are  told,  done  great  good,  by  spreading  out  as  on  a  map, 
the  devious  and  toilsome  paths  through  which  the  student  is  com- 
pelled to  struggle,  in  order  to  attain  a  scientific  and  suitable  know- 
ledge of  the  law.  That  edition  was  exhausted  within  two  years 
after  its  publication.  It  strikes  us,  from  a  hasty  survey  of  the 
pages  of  the  Legal  Study,  that  it  is  replete  \\ith  rich  and  instruc- 
tive matter,  and  abounds  with  information  that  the  student,  who 
wishes  to  become  an  accomplished  and  elegant  lawyer,  should  not 
be  devoid  of.  The  mature  student  and  practitioner  too,  must  find 
in  the  stores  that  the  laborious  and  industrious  author  has  thus  col- 
lected, mach  that  will  grace  and  increase  his  learning.  We  find 
the  names  of  the  most  eminent  lawyers  and  judges  of  the  country 
in  the  catalogue  of  those  who  have  expressed  their  sense  of  the 
value  and  importance  of  the  labours  of  Mr.  Hoffman  in  thia 
department  of  legal  education. 


10  NOTICES    OF    THE    LtGAL    STUDY. 

The  Baltimore  American,  in  noticing  the  various  articles  of  the 
January  number  of  the  North  American  Review,  says  : 

'Article  fourth  is  (especially  to  the  legal  student)  an  interesting 
notice  of  'Hoffman's  Course  of  Legal  Study,'  as  enlarged,  anS 
lately  presented  to  the  public  in  a  second  edition.  This  paper 
awards  high,  but  without  doubt,  deserved  praise  to  the  author  of 
the  work  under  consideration,  for  the  marked  ability  of  its  execu- 
tion. As  touching  its  general  scope  and  character,  the  Reviewer 
observes,  that  the  members  of  the  profession  of  the  law  owe  a 
debt  of  gratitude  to  Mr.  Hoffman,  for  his  endeavours  to  elevate 
it,  by  the  comprehensive  course  of  liberal  studies,  which  he  has 
presented  to  its  students.  But  yet  more  honourable  is  the  award, 
and  yet  more  justly  valued  should  be  the  testimonial  of  the  Re- 
viewer, in  the  following  remarks,  which,  as  they  comprise  a  lesson 
of  high  value  in  themselves,  we  gladly  transcribe : 

'We  should  be  guilty  of  gross  inpistice  to  Mr.  Hoffman  if  we 
omitted  to  mention,  with  the  highest  commendation,  the  tone  of 
moral  feeling,  which  breathes  from  every  page  of  his  work.  He 
loses  no  opportunity  to  impress  upon  the  mind  of  the  youthful  stu- 
dent, that  it  is  not  enough  for  him  to  be  a  good  lawyer,  and  a  good 
scholar,  but  that  he  must  also  be  a  good  man,  and  that  the  highest 
attainments  are  imperfect,  without  that  delicate  moral  sense  which 
feels  a  stain  like  a  wound,  and  that  resolute  moral  strength  which 
makes  a  man  submit  to  be  torn  in  pieces  rather  than  do  what  he 
knows  to  be  wrong.  His  remarks  on  Professional  Deportment  are 
conceived  and  written  with  an  energy  and  glow,  which  remind  us 
of  some  of  the  most  eloquent  passages  in  the  ethical  writings  of 
Cicero.' 

The  Princeton  Review,  and  Biblical  Repertory,  contains  a 
detailed  notice  of  this  work,  in  fifteen  pages,  and  speaks  of  it  in 
the  same  tone  of  stro-ng  commendation. 

(From  the  Baltimore  American,  of  September,  1839.) 

Messrs.  Editors  : — A  late  number  of  the  London  Law  Maga- 
zine, which  has  just  reached  this  city,  contains  for  its  leading  arti- 
cle an  elaborate  review  of  a  Baltimore  book,  'A  Course  of  Legal 
Study,'  by  our  distinguished  townsman.  David  Hoffman,  Esq. 
The  article  throughout  is  highly  complimentary,  though  not  with- 
out such  occasional  censure  as  gives  it  the  stamp  of  an  impartial 
and  candid  judgment.  It  is  truly  gratifying,  amid  the  many  harsh 
things  which  it  has  been  too  much  the  habit  of  British  Reviews  to 
say  of  us,  to  find  that  cis-atlantic  scholarship  in  the  law  meets 
with  just  praise,  and  that  the  names  of  Kent,  Story,  Hoffman, 
and  others,  are  associated  with  honourable  mention  in  the  same 
category  with  the  most  distinguished  jurists  of  England,  and  the 
Continent.  I  extract  the  first  page  of  the  review,  in  the  latter  part 
of  which  the  'Legal  Study'  is  compared  with  Dupin's  Camus. 

'It  is  a  general  opinion  amongst  our  readers  that  we  have  already 
devoted  more  space  to  Mr.  Warren's  lucubrations  than  they  are 
worth,  and  as  his  complete  misconception  of  the  nature  and  exi- 
gencies of  the  profession,  and  the  impracticability  of  his  peculiar 
plan  of  study — the  two  radical  all-pervading  errors  of  his  work— 


NOTICES    OF    THE    LEGAL    STUDY.  11 

have  been  satisfactorily  exposed,  it  certainly  seems  useless  to  pro- 
ceed with  a  systematic  review.  Our  more  immediate  object, 
therefore,  is  to  introduce  the  enlightened  American  whose  work  is 
.named  at  the  head  of  this  article,  and  then  afford  the  rising  genera- 
tion the  benefit  of  sundry  promised  hints  and  suggestions  of  our  own. 
•The  work  Mr.  Hoffman's  most  closely  resembles  is  M.  Dupin's 
edition  of  Camus,  in  which  the  course  to  be  adopted  by  the  legal 
aspirant  is  marked  out,  the  various  rights  and  duties  of  the  practis- 
ing advocate  are  explained,  and  the  leading  books  on  the  codes  or 
systems  of  almost  every  country  in  the  world,  known  to  possess  a 
code  or  system,  are  enumerated.  But  there  is  this  material  diffe- 
rence— M.  Dupin  makes  no  pretension  to  a  critical  acquaintance 
with  an  immense  majority  of  the  authors  named  by  him,  and  gives 
the  student  little  or  no  aid  whatever  in  making  a  selection  from 
the  mass.  Mr.  Hoffman,  on  the  contrary,  has  evidently  perused 
with  care  the  various  works  comprised  within  the  most  compre- 
hensive of  hi?  courses,  and  is  consequently  not  merely  prepared 
with  information  as  to  the  comparative  merit  of  any  given  publi- 
cation as  a  whole,  but  can  tell  which  parts,  chapters  or  sections 
are  most  worthy  of  attention,  and  which  it  may  be  advisable  to 
skip.  For  example,  the  contents  of  Coke's  Reports  are  carefully 
distributed  under  the  respective  heads  of  real  property,  pleading, 
mercantile  law,  &c.;  the  precise  point  decided  in  each  case  being 
stated,  and  its  bearings  and  consequences  followed  out. 

LEGAL    OUTLINES. 

This  work  of  the  author  has  met  with  an  equally  strong  praise. 
The  volume  has  now  assumed  a  new  form,  the  author  having  relin- 
quished for  the  present,  the  design  of  adding  the  other  two  volumes. 
It  is  now  presented  as  a  single  volume,  and  a  perfect  work,  being 
thus  published  with  a  view  to  its  re-publication  in  England,  and 
contains  an  address  to  British  law  students.  There  are  but  a  few 
copies  remaining  of  this  work,  either  in  its  late,  or  in  its  present 
form. 

Mr.  Hoffman's  Literary  Works  are  likewise  for  sale  by  KAY 
k  BROTHERS. 

Philadelphia,  September,  1839. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


RECEIVED 
LD-UR' 


MAY  29  IBb 


AM 
7-4 


4  -  i^ 


Form  L9-50m-4,'61(B8y94s4)44d 


AC 

8 

H67v 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  f  ACILITY 


A  A      000  038  615    i 


